OY 


JOEY  THE  DREAMER 


OP  CALIF.   LIBRARY,   LOS  ANGELES 


JOEY 
THE  DREAMER 

A  TALE  OF  CLAY   COURT 


By 

Henry  Oyen 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE   &  COMPANY 

1911 


AIX    RIGHTS    RESERVED,  INCLUDING    THAT    O*    TRANSLATION 
INTO    FOREIGN    LANGUAGES,    INCLUDING    THE    SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,  igil,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 


JOEY  THE  DREAMER 


21^1893 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  ALL  began  through  a  letter  that  was  awaiting  me 
upon  my  return  to  the  city  after  two  months  spent 
in  close  association  with  trout,  bass,  pines,  and 
other  desirable  things  of  the  North  in  summer  time.  It 
was  the  year  19 — ,  a  year  of  a  Presidential  election.  The 
letter  was  from  the  secretary  of  the  Society  for  the  Im- 
provement of  Civic  and  Commercial  Conditions  in  the 
City,  and  it  announced  a  meeting  Monday,  the  third, 
eight  p.  M.,  at  the  club.  My  attendance  was  particularly 
desired;  there  was  a  matter  which  was  certain  to  de- 
velop to  my  interest.  Could  I  come? 

A  glance  at  the  calendar  showed  that  it  was  Monday, 
the  third,  and  the  clock  showed  seven  forty-five.  I  had 
come  back  just  in  time;  nothing  remained  but  to  call  a 
cab  and  bid  the  man  hurry. 

The  Society  was  sitting  in  comfortable  state,  the  small 
of  its  various  backs  resting  solidly  on  the  seats  of  the 
big  club  chairs.  It  was  a  notable  gathering.  There 
was,  first  of  all,  Dicky  Clews,  the  youngest  and  the  richest 
of  them  all.  Then  came  the  ex-minister  to  Austria.  Seated 
beside  him  was  the  senator's  brother,  and  the  man  whose 
money  had  bought  the  senator's  seat,  and  who  controlled 
him  to  his  last  opinion.  Next  were  four  ordinary 
millionaires,  then  the  Rev.  David  Arthur,  the  celebrated 

3 


4  Joey  the  Dreamer 

divine,  and  half  a  dozen  others  who  merely  made  up  the 
quorum.  It  was  a  gathering  of  City  Barons,  and  to  my 
amazement  my  arrival  was  received  with  something 
resembling  enthusiasm.  Even  the  listless  Dicky  Clews 
rose  on  his  long  legs  to  shake  hands. 

"As  I  live  and  breathe,  'tis  John  Lord,"  said  Dicky. 
"The  man  we  are  yearning  for,  and  at  the  psychological 
moment." 

Even  the  ex-minister  was  genial.  The  signs  were 
obvious;  the  Society  had  decided  that  I  could  be  of 
use  to  it. 

It  seemed  that  an  article  under  my  signature,  "The 
Extravagance  of  the  Indigent,"  had  done  the  work.  It 
had  been  printed  recently  and  had  attracted  the  Society's 
attention.  It  was,  said  the  Society,  true  to  life. 

"The  very  man,"  repeated  Dicky  Clews.  "Swear  if 
'tisn't  a  regular  godsend." 

"What?"  I  asked. 

"Your  dropping  in  here  now,  fit  and  brown,  full  of 
steam,  ready  to  work  like  a  reg'lar  little  dynamo." 

"Why?" 

"Because  we  need  you,  dear  man.  Crave  your  expert 
knowledge,  and  all  that.  We  were  just  talking  about — 
about  these."  Dicky  thrust  a  reprint  of  the  article 
under  my  nose,  and  nodded  westward  at  the  same  time. 
"  Tenementers,  you  know.  They  —  they're  getting  rest- 
less, you  know,  uneasy;  and  we  can't  have  it,  you  know, 
this  Presidential  year  of  19 — ." 

I  did  not  know,  of  course,  having  been  in  a  land  of 
peace,  where  newspapers  were  not.  The  great,  gray- 


Joey  the  Dreamer  5 

headed  ex-minister,  smiling  indulgently  at  Dicky's 
attempt  at  explanation,  hastened  to  help  him  out. 

"This  summer,  Mr.  Lord,"  he  began,  "unfortunately, 
so  far  has  been  one  of  strange  unrest  in  that  portion  of 
the  city  which  you  treat  so  clearly  in  your  excellent  and 
much  discussed  paper."  The  ex-minister's  delivery  was 
classic;  the  impression  he  gave  out  was  that  of  a  monu- 
ment—  a  monument  to  civilization  —  speaking.  He 
bowed.  I  bowed.  It  was  very  pretty.  "As  Mr. 
Clews  so  succinctly  states,  the  people  over  there — " 
his  long  white  hand  indicated  the  West  Side — "for 
some  unknown  reason  seem  to  be  disturbed.  An 
unusual  condition  seems  to  exist.  No  specific  tur- 
bulence of  the  ordinary  sort,  such  as  strikes  or  riots, 
has  taken  place;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  has 
developed  a  hitherto  unknown  undercurrent  of  rest- 
lessness which  is  deeply  affecting  the  people.  This, 
of  course,  is  seriously  detrimental  to  their  welfare,  and, 
also,  is  not  a  desirable  condition  to  prevail  in  a  year 
when  an  important  Presidential  campaign  is  to  be  made. 
It  is  the  purpose  of  this  body  to  strive  to  regulate  all 
things  vitally  connected  with  the  affairs  of  the  munici- 
pality in  a  manner  most  conducive  to  civic  order  and 
welfare.  To  do  this  we  must  have  intelligent  and 
comprehensive  information  regarding  all  the  phases  of 
the  city's  life." 

"And  that's  what  we  want  you  to  get,"  interrupted 
Dicky.  "Go  over  there  and  see  what  the  deuce  is  the 
matter  with  'em." 

The  ex-minister  smiled  again  indulgently  upon  Dicky. 


6  Joey  the  Dreamer 

He  could  afford  to;  Dicky's  fortune  topped  them  all  by 
an  uncomfortable  margin. 

"Your  familiarity  with  the  subject,  Mr.  Lord,  as 
demonstrated  in  your  paper,  seems  to  us  to  make  you 
the  logical  man  to  conduct  such  an  investigation," 
continued  the  great  man.  "  In  short,  this  Society  wishes 
to  appoint  you  its  special  commissioner  to  study  the 
unusual  conditions  prevalent  in  that  quarter  of  the  city 
this  summer." 

"Yes,"  said  Dicky,  "you've  read  up  on  'em;  you  know 
about  'em.  Beside,"  he  continued,  rising  to  go,  "you've 
got  the  —  what  d'you  call  it  ?  —  cold,  mathematical 
faculty  of  accurate  observation.  Accept?  That's  the 
stuff." 

Accept?  Of  course  I  would  accept.  I  was  hungry 
for  work,  and  this  promised  to  be  interesting.  I  hastened 
to  express  my  satisfaction.  The  Society  sighed  a  sigh 
of  real  relief. 

"Now,"  said  Dicky,  yawning,  "we'll  know  how  to 
handle  'em." 

The  Society  adjourned  at  once,  and  the  Rev.  David 
Arthur  and  I  walked  from  the  room  together. 

"Strange,"  said  he,  in  his  scholarly  tones,  "what  a 
vast  amount  of  interest  at  present  is  being  displayed  in 
that  comparatively  unimportant  quarter  of  the  city 
which  you  are  to  study.  It  amazes  me.  Who  would 
have  thought,  say  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago,  that  the  class 
which  lives  over  there  ever  could  force  itself  into  a  position 
that  calls  for  close  attention  from  cultured,  superior 
people?  And  now,  why,  everybody  seems  to  have  given 


Joey  the  Dreamer  7 

some  thought  to  the  subject.  More  than  that,  Mr.  Lord, 
this  thought  is  having  a  strange,  undesirable  effect  upon 
some  of  our  best  people — our  young  people,  of  course. 
Would  you  believe  it,  my  daughter  Ruth  has  been  so  far 
carried  away  by  her  interest  in  this  subject  that  she 
is  actually  living  over  there,  at  a  Settlement  House, 
I  believe!" 

I  said:  "What?"  in  a  tone  that  made  his  Reverence 
pause  and  ponder.  He  thrust  his  under-lip  forward 
thoughtfully. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  is  so:  you  have  some 
acquaintance  with  Ruth,  haven't  you?" 

And  that  was  how  it  all  began. 

Thirty  minutes  later  I  stood  in  the  hallway  of  the 
Tenement,  and  in  those  thirty  minutes  I  had  passed 
from  one  world  to  another.  A  car  ride  to  the  Settlement 
House  had  proven  the  Rev.  David  Arthur  in  error. 
Ruth  was  not  there,  was  in  no  way  connected  with  the 
institution.  They  merely  knew  that  she  was  living  in 
the  Tenement  at  the  head  of  Clay  Court.  Another  car 
hurried  me  up  the  crowded,  well-lighted  Avenue  and 
dropped  me  into  the  gut-like  darkness  of  Clay  Court; 
and  I  had  only  to  go  straight  forward,  to  where  the 
Tenement's  lights  appeared  like  bleary  red  eyes  in  the 
dark,  to  walk  straight  into  the  ever-open  hall. 

The  hallway  was  a  pit,  with  a  stingy  gas  jet  near  the 
door,  and,  for  an  instant,  the  sense  was  upon  me  of  hav- 
ing stepped  into  the  path  of  a  storm.  Two  men  stood  at 
the  farther  edge  of  the  light,  their  shoulder-blades  against 
the  plasterless  wall,  and  a  can  of  beer  gleamed  between 


8  Joey  the  Dreamer 

them.  In  two  open  doors,  on  either  side,  stood  women. 
They  were  quarrelling;  everybody  seemed  to  be  quar- 
relling. It  seemed  the  natural  thing  to  do  in  that  en- 
vironment. Out  of  the  medley  thus  produced  came 
intelligible  snatches. 

"Pitch?"  rumbled  a  fuzzy  masculine  voice  above  the 
can.  "Why  that  guy  couldn't  pitch  pine." 

This  was  argument,  the  argument  of  base-ball  con- 
troversy, as  a  long  course  in  newspaper  reading  helped 
me  unravel. 

"Yes,  and  you  keep  your  kids  outa  my  house,  too." 
This  in  feminine  falsetto;  weary,  married  feminine. 

"Outa  your  house?"  An  incredulous  duplicate  of  the 
previous.  "My  heavings!  Has  my  kids  been  in  your 
house?  Come  here,  Mabel;  come  here,  Petey — and  get 
fummigated  quick!" 

The  storm  rose  suddenly  'til  the  words  were  mingled 
inextricably.  Then  a  door  opened  in  the  greasy  darkness, 
far  back  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  It  seemed  impossible 
that  any  one  should  be  living  there,  for  it  was  like  a  hole 
burrowed  in  the  back  wall  of  a  cave;  but  behind  the 
shape  that  nearly  filled  the  doorway  a  gas  jet  revealed  a 
table  and  a  chair  —  there  was  a  home  back  there.  And 
the  shape  was  the  shape  of  a  Man.  He  was  so  big  that 
he  hever  belonged  in  that  trap  at  all;  the  poise  of  his 
head  was  too  free;  his  voice  rang  too  true  to  the  Yankee 
twang. 

"Shut  up,"  said  he.  And  they  shut  up.  "Keep 
this  helling  up  any  longer  and  I'll  come  out  there  and 
break  bones."  They  were  very  still.  "The  baby's 


Joey  the  Dreamer  9 

gettin'  worse,  that's  why."  Then  he  shut  the  door,  and 
there  was  peace  upon  the  scene. 

In  the  wholesome  silence  that  followed,  I  managed  to 
make  my  query. 

"Miss    Arthur?" 

"He  means  Miss  Ruth.  Third  floor  front,  on  the 
right,  going  up." 

As  I  started  forward  dubiously  I  heard: 

"Wonder  what's  his  game?" 

"Inspector,  mebbe." 

"Oh,  Mamie!    Hide  the  phonygraft." 

I  had  reached  the  first  step,  going  up,  when  a  tiny  boy, 
sitting  alone  in  the  darkness  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
rose  up  and  said  in  a  tired  voice,  yet  with  something  akin 
to  eagerness  in  it: 

"I'll  show  you  up  there,  mister;  I  know  where  Miss 
Ruth  lives." 

In  the  darkness  it  was  impossible  to  see  much  of  him, 
save  that  he  was  very  small  and  apparently  old  for  his 
size.  He  went  up  slowly  in  the  lead,  mounting  each 
step  with  difficulty,  as  if  the  lift  was  too  much  for  him. 

"Do  you  live  here?" 

His  answer  seemed  strange  in  the  Tenement.  He 
said:  "Yessir." 

As  we  reached  the  second  floor  he  pointed  to  the  rear. 

"That's  where  we  live,"  he  said.  The  door  was  open, 
and  a  big,  red-faced  woman  was  sitting  inside. 

"Do  you  know  Miss — Miss  Ruth?" 

"Yessir,"  he  said. 

"What  is  your  name?" 


10  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Joey  Bruggers,"  said  he,  and  kept  toiling  up. 

The  air  was  so  thick  and  he  was  so  small  that  I  won- 
dered he  did  not  stifle.  A  white  painted  door  marked 
the  third  floor  front,  right,  going  up,  apart  from  its 
neighbours.  To  this  the  boy  led,  opened  it  without 
knocking  and  peeped  in. 

"Come  in,  Joey,"  came  in  a  voice  which,  in  that 
medley  of  discords,  was  like  a  blessing;  and  I  knew  that 
we  had  found  Ruth  in.  Said  Joey,v  walking  gravely  in  and 
seating  himself  in  a  corner,  "Here's  a  guy  wants  to  see 
you,  Miss  Ruth. 

At  which  a  tall,  freckled  young  man,  with  a  violin 
case  under  one  arm,  and  a  young  girl,  with  yellow  hair, 
arose  together  from  their  chairs  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  room  and  together  said:  "Well,  I  guess  we  gotta  be 
on  our  way,  Miss  Ruth." 

"You!"  said  Ruth,  upon  seeing  me.  "What  are  you 
doing  over  here?" 

It  was  on  my  tongue  to  ask  her  the  same  question, 
but  she  held  out  her  hand,  and  before  that  patient  smile 
and  the  quiet  blue  eyes  and  the  aura  of  faith  that  sur- 
rounded her,  I  stammered  wretchedly;  and  I  felt  as  an 
abashed  scoffer  might  feel  who  has  wandered  by  mistake 
into  the  temple. 

"Yes,  we  gotta  be  going,"  repeated  the  yellow-haired 
girl.  But  instead  there  were  introductions  all  around. 

"Delia."  The  girl  greeted  me  with  her  head  high  up, 
her  quick,  unabashed  eyes  appraising  me  with  a  glance. 
She  was  small,  and  she  came  perilously  near  being  beauti- 
ful. A  pretty  butterfly — no,  a  pretty  little  canary-bird, 


Joey  the  Dreamer  11 

who  obviously  longed  for  a  chance  to  beat  her  wings 
against  the  bars. 

"Freddy."  The  young  man  ducked  a  head  as  nearly 
red  as  heads  grow  and  grinned  a  grin  that  was  made  to 
win  the  hearts  of  men  or  dogs.  In  fact,  his  face  was 
strangely  uncertain  in  repose;  it  was  made  to  be  twisted 
amiably  in  that  grin. 

"Joey."  This  was  the  shock.  In  the  light  he  was 
even  smaller  than  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall.  His  head 
was  sizes  too  big  for  his  body.  His  face  was  terribly 
thin;  but  in  it  shone  two  great  eyes  with  the  clear,  hunger- 
ing look  in  them  of  those  who  are  touched  by  God. 
And  he  lived  on  the  second  floor,  rear,  with  the  big  woman 
of  the  red  face. 

We  sat  down,  Delia  and  Freddy  on  the  edge  of  their 
chairs,  as  11  sitting  down  were  merely  the  final  preparation 
for  their  going. 

"We  was  just  up  giving  old  Mag  a  little  cheer-up, 
anyway,"  said  Freddy. 

"Sure."  Delia  fussed  with  the  back  of  her  wonderful 
pompadour.  "We  was  only  going  to  stay  a  second." 

They  spoke  to  Ruth;  I  was  present  only  as  a  restraint 
to  conversation. 

"I  heard  you  was  playing,  Freddy,"  piped  Joey.  "I 
was  sitting  down  on  the  steps." 

That  saved  the  situation;  the  tension  fell. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  on  up,  Joey?"  demanded 
Delia.  "You  could  of  come  up." 

"You  know  it,  Joey."  Freddy  winked  at  the  little 
fellow  in  a  way  that  forced  even  Joey's  tiny  old  face  to 


12  Joey  the  Dreamer 

attempt  a  smile.  "Any  time  Joey  wants  anything  when 
I'm  around,  he  knows  all  he's  got  to  do  is  to  ask,  eh,  kid? 
Joey'n  me's  old  pals,  ain't  we,  Joey?  How'd  you  like 
that  new  tune  of  mine,  kid?  Know  what  I  call  it?  'Why 
Do  They  Blow  the  Whistle  When  I  Ought  to  Be  Sound 
Asleep?'" 

Freddy  himself  bid  for  the  laughter  that  followed,  with 
his  face  one  big  grin.  Joey  did  not  laugh.  He  pondered 
gravely  and  said: 

"Why  do  they,  Freddy?" 

But  Delia  would  have  no  more  of  this  frivolity.  Ap- 
parently she  knew  Freddy's  weakness  and  was  afraid  that 
he  would  "make  a  fool  of  himself"  if  permitted  to  go  on. 
She  promptly  turned  the  talk  to  serious  matters,  indica- 
ting by  her  manner  that  they  must  leave  soon. 

"You  going  to  have  a  meeting  in  the  park,  Sat'day 
night,  ain't  you,  Miss  Ruth?" 

"If  nothing  happens,  dear." 

"Me'n  Freddy '11  be  there,"  said  Delia  decisively.  She 
said  it  without  consulting  Freddy. 

"Wonder  if  old  Rinehart'll  have  his  spiel-fest  at  the 
corner  again?"  said  he. 

"Oh,  sure,"  snapped  Delia.  "You  know  how  them 
guys  are;  they  gotta  talk  or  they  can't  live.  And  now 
with  all  this  talk  about  cutting  our  wages  down  at  the 
Fact'ry,  and  a  strike,  and  all  the  row  — Oh,  he'll  be  there, 
all  right.  No  need  to  ast.  Well,  come  on  now,  Freddy; 
we  gotta  be  going  sure." 

"Sure,"  said  Freddy,  rising  obediently.  "We  was 
just  going  to  stay  a  minute,  anyway." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  13 

"Pleased  to  met  you,"  said  Delia  smartly.  Freddy 
ducked  his  head  and  grinned.  Joey,  too,  took  his  leave. 
The  last  sight  we  had  of  them  was  as  they  went  down  the 
stairs,  Freddy  in  the  middle,  Delia  on  his  left  arm,  the 
violin  case  under  his  right,  his  right  hand  resting  frater- 
nally on  Joey's  little  shoulder. 

"Good  heavens!"  I  said.  "I  thought  the  people  who 
lived  here  were  the  ones  who  belonged  here." 

"Yes,"  said  Ruth,  smiling  patiently  as  if  this  were  a 
mistake  one  was  expected  to  make.  "And  now  what 
excuse  have  you  to  offer  for  straying  so  far  from  your 
true  environment?" 

I  thought  of  my  mission,  and  of  what  I  had  seen. 
I  said:  "I  came  to  ask  questions  of  you  about  these 
people,  but  I  find  I  do  not  know  what  to  ask." 

Before  that  week  came  to  an  end,  several  things  had 
happened.  I  had  apologized  profusely  to  a  bewildered 
editor  for  foisting  upon  him  a  didactic  article  about 
something  of  which  I  was  more  densely  ignorant  than  of 
the  agricultural  statistics  of  Finland,  had  resigned  my 
position  as  special  commissioner  for  the  Society,  saying 
that  sometime  I  might  know  enough  to  write  something 
about  "those  people  over  there,"  but  not  what  the 
Society  expected;  and  on  Saturday  afternoon  I  took 
possession  of  a  thoroughly  renovated  room  on  the  fourth 
floor,  front,  right,  of  the  Tenement,  and  it  looked  as  if 
I  was  going  to  be  permitted  to  become  acquainted  with 
Clay  Court,  to  the  enlightenment  of  my  benighted  soul. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  IS  on  this  Saturday  that  our  story  really  begins, 
for  it  is  on  Saturday  night  that  things  happen  in 
Clay  Court,  and  this  was  the  Saturday  that  little 
Joey  committed  the  Awful  Crime. 

I  moved  in  at  five.  The  room  was  everything  that  a 
room  should  not  be  for  size,  and,  being  under  the  roof,  it 
was  shamefully  stunted  for  height;  but  it  had  a  window 
looking  squarely  down  the  Court,  and,  for  this,  much  was 
to  be  forgiven  it.  There  were  other  compensations. 
Being  four  stories  removed  from  the  street  level  was  one 
of  them;  and  the  view  —  ah,  that  view  made  up  for  all. 
Every  window,  every  fire-escape,  every  inch  of  the  street, 
and  most  of  the  roofs  —  were  mine  for  the  looking,  and 
all  from  a  strictly  original  point  of  view. 

I  threw  up  the  window  and  leaned  out.  The  walks 
and  the  street  below  were  dotted  out  to  the  Avenue  with 
crawling  infants.  Children  just  over  the  toddling  age 
tended  them.  These  made  up  the  bulk  of  the  people  to 
be  seen  in  the  Court  at  this  hour;  the  women  were  begin- 
ning odorous  preparations  for  the  evening  meal,  and  all 
the  others,  it  seems,  were  at  work. 

At  five-thirty  Ruth  stood  in  the  doorway  with  an 
invitation.  It  was  her  custom  to  walk  down  the  Avenue 
to  the  Factory  and  meet  Joey  and  Delia  as  they  came 

14 


15 

from  work.  Would  I  care  to  come  with  her  this  evening? 
I  hastily  put  off  my  attempt  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  place  I  had  decided  to  live  in  for  awhile, 
and  came.  And  by  so  doing  we  walked  straight  into 
the  heart  of  the  little  drama  which  the  next  few  days 
were  to  unfold. 

The  great  brick  barracks  of  the  Consolidated  Factory 
Company  lay  a  mile  down  the  Avenue  from  the  Tene- 
ment, and  in  them  most  of  our  people  over  three  feet 
high  found  employment.  When  the  wind  was  from  the 
east,  we  had  the  smoke  from  the  Factory  chimneys  roll- 
ing over  us  in  fat,  black  clouds;  and,  from  the  outside, 
the  buildings  had  an  uncomfortable  way  of  giving  out 
an  impression  of  jail. 

"Does  Joey  work  in  the  Factory?"  I  asked,  as  we 
walked  along.  The  Avenue  was  quiet,  as  the  lull  before 
the  storm.  The  peddlers  and  fakirs  were  getting  ready 
their  displays;  the  beggars  were  uncovering  such  in- 
firmities as  they  had  to  offer.  They  all  increased  in 
numbers  as  we  neared  the  Factory,  and  all  were  waiting, 
ready  to  receive  the  swarm  of  home-goers  that  soon  would 
break  over  the  Avenue  like  a  flood.  And  Joey's  eyes 
seemed  out  of  place  there. 

"Yes,"  said  Ruth. 

"And  Delia,  too  — in  the  Factory?" 

"Yes.  And  Freddy,  and  most  of  the  working  people 
here,  large  and  small.  Saturday  night  is  pay-night,  so 
I  like  to  go  down  and  meet  my  little  friends  to-night 
especially." 

I  had  horrible  visions  of  Joey  and  Delia  in  the  grasp  of 


16  Joey  the  Dreamer 

burly  ruffians  and  being  forced  to  give  up  tlnir  meagre 
week's  wage. 

"No,  no,"  said  Ruth  when  I  suggested  this.  "But 
pay-day  means  money,  and  money  means  drunkenness. 
I  don't  like  to  think  of  Joey  or  Delia  alone  in  it.  Not 
that  they  are  in  danger,  physically.  But  you  under- 
stand?" 

I  felt  that  I  did. 

"I  am  thankful,"  continued  Ruth,  as  we  neared  the 
Factory,  "that  you  didn't  ask  the  usual  questions: 
'Why  do  you  bother  about  this  place?'  'How  in  the 
world  can  you  live  here?'  'What  do  you  expect  to  do 
here?'  The  worst  of  it  is,"  she  said  with  her  slow  smile, 
"I  can't  answer  them  to  any  one's  satisfaction.  I  can 
only  ask  them  to  open  their  eyes  and  see." 

"I,  too,  am  blind  and  wofully  ignorant,"  I  said. 
"But  give  me  credit  for  this:  I  never  thought  of  asking 
those  questions  after  last  Monday  night." 

"You  are  credited,"  she  said  laughing.  Then  we  came 
to  the  Factory. 

And  Joey,  little  Joey,  had  committed  the  Awful  Crime. 
Being  privileged  characters  we  will  step  inside  and  take 
a  first-hand  view  of  his  misdoing. 

The  scene  is  the  much-too-dark  and  dusty  finishing- 
room  of  the  Consolidated  Factory,  the  time  nearing  six 
of  this  fine  Saturday  in  August;  and  Joey  had  looked  at 
the  clock! 

One  really  must  know  something  of  the  Factory  to 
appreciate  the  complete  depravity  of  Joey's  action.  No 
one  must  look  at  the  clock  before  six  in  the  Factory.  At 


Joey  the  Dreamer  17 

six  comes  the  end  of  the  day's  work.  At  that  hour  a 
whistle  blows  sullenly  somewhere  down  in  the  dark 
regions  near  the  engine-room,  and  somewhere  in  the  same 
vicinity  somebody  moves  a  lever  that  shuts  off  the  power. 
The  big  building,  packed  to  the  walls  with  machinery  and 
humanity,  answers  the  signal  like  a  storm  dying  in  full 
flight.  The  dizzy  whirling  of  hundreds  of  wheels  stops; 
the  strident  note  of  the  machinery  drops  gradually  to  a 
droning  key.  Belts  move  slowly  from  pulley  to  pulley, 
listlessly  flapping  together  as  they  complete  their  final 
journeys  for  the  day;  and,  finally,  with  many  creaks  and 
groans,  as  if  protesting  against  the  cessation  of  easy, 
humming  motion,  the  wheels  make  their  last  revolutions, 
stop,  and  grow  still.  And  then,  and  not  until  then,  the 
flesh  and  blood  beings  who  tend  the  machines  give  vent 
to  a  sigh  of  escape.  Slowly  and  carefully  they  straighten 
their  bent  backs.  Slowly,  and  with  an  expression  in 
which  incredulity  liberally  mingles  with  the  sense  of 
relief,  they  look  around.  It  is  six.  The  day  is  over. 
They  are  free  to  go  home;  but  it  is  hard  to  believe  that 
the  end  has  come  after  one  has  resolved  that  the  day  will 
last  forever. 

And  then,  also,  one  may  look  at  the  clock. 

But  Joey  was  tired.  He  was  always  tired.  He  was 
so  small  that  he  could  just  rest  his  chin  on  an  ordinary 
table,  and  his  shoulders  hung  in  front  of  his  chest  like  two 
round  bone-knobs.  His  face  looked  something  like  the 
face  of  an  old  man  who  doesn't  get  enough  to  eat,  but,  as 
if  to  make  up  for  all  this,  his  eyes  were  two  of  the  brightest 
that  ever  shone  in  a  child's  head.  The  flesh  might  grow 


18  Joey  the  Dreamer 

weary  under  the  steady  strain  of  work,  but  those  eyes 
gleamed  always  with  a  light  that  belonged  not  in  that 
weary  Factory. 

The  work  was  hard.  It  came  pouring  on  to  the  table 
between  Delia's  and  Freddy's  machines.  Joey's  Two- 
fifty  a  week  depended  solely  upon  his  ability  to  keep 
the  table  cleared,  so  the  machines  would  not  be  stopped 
or  delayed  in  the  furious  pace  which  the  power  set  for 
them.  Sometimes  Joey's  legs  gave  out;  and  then  he  had 
hit  upon  an  ingenious  scheme  to  save  himself.  Leaning 
forward  on  the  waist-high  table,  he  rested  the  middle 
portion  of  his  little  body  upon  its  edge,  thus  taking  most 
of  his  weight  off  the  wabbly  legs.  It  was  hard  on  the 
stomach,  of  course,  but  time  and  again  the  scheme  had 
saved  the  day. 

To-day,  being  Saturday,  was  worse  than  ever.  The 
scheme  had  been  tried  often  throughout  the  day,  and  still 
the  legs  refused  to  hold  up  as  they  should.  Little  by 
little  Joey  felt  them  giving  way.  His  mouth  was  drawn 
out  of  shape  in  the  corners,  from  chewing  his  lips  to  keep 
from  crying;  his  little  old  face  was  covered  with  a  coating 
of  brown  dust  that  the  tired  hands  could  not  wipe  away; 
and  Joey,  looking  for  the  coming  of  six  as  the  shipwrecked 
sailor  looks  for  land,  paused  for  an  instant  in  his  steady 
task  and  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Gee!"  he  muttered  as  he  noted  that  the  hands  showed 
many  minutes  from  six.  His  eyes  moved  appealingly 
from  the  clock  up  to  the  ceiling.  Up  there  in  the  murky 
dusk  the  shafting  continued  its  dizzy  whirl,  and  the  belts 
sang  from  pulley  to  pulley  as  if  they  would  never  stop. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  19 

"Aw!"  whined  Joey.     "Won't  it  ever  be  six?" 

That  was  all;  but  that  was  enough.  He  had  looked 
at  the  clock! 

"The  little  villain!"  The  Superintendent  got  down 
from  his  spying  perch  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  his 
eyes  ablaze  and  his  big  under-lip  fairly  quivering  with 
righteous  indignation.  "What  thieves  they  are!"  he 
thought  as  he  started  down  the  aisle.  "How  a  man's 
got  to  watch  them  to  keep  them  up  to  snuff!" 

Keeping  his  work  people  up  to  snuff  was  this  Superin- 
tendent's specialty,  and  having  only  the  other  day 
turned  a  woman  into  the  street,  because  he  had  discovered 
that  she  was  too  sick  and  feeble  to  keep  up  to  the  required 
speed,  he  was  particularly  pleased  at  the  opportunity 
offered  him  by  Joey's  conduct.  Here  was  another  chance 
to  demonstrate  his  eternal  vigilance.  Surely  the  Di- 
rectors soon  must  take  notice  of  the  way  he  handled  help. 

Behind  the  now  frantically  hurrying  Joey  the  great  man 
stopped.  He  smiled  a  small  smile  of  great  self-satisfaction, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  studying  the  thin  back  as  it 
moved  to  and  fro,  fro  and  to,  under  the  ceaseless  call 
of  the  work. 

"Hmm!"  said  the  Superintendent  suddenly. 

Joey,  for  some  reason  that  would  have  been  hidden 
to  a  stranger,  jumped  as  if  he  had  been  struck.  But  he 
did  not  stop  or  turn  around.  Another  pause.  Joey's 
legs  began  to  tremble. 

"Hmm!"  repeated  the  Superintendent.  Then,  deliber- 
ately, his  big  hand  fell  upon  one  of  Joey's  shoulders,  the 
big  fingers  took  a  firm  hold  on  the  round,  bony  knob,  and 


20  Joey  the  Dreamer 

slowly  the  shoulder  was  twisted  around  until  Joey,  trem- 
bling like  a  rabbit  in  a  trap,  was  forced  to  face  the 
Superintendent. 

"Young  man"  —  the  voice  was  terrible,  but  the  glaring 
eyes  were  worse — "young  man,  don't  you  need  your  job?  " 

"Oh,  yessir,"  stammered  Joey. 

"Don't  you  care  to  work  here  any  longer?"  There 
was  fine  sarcasm  in  the  accent  that  the  Superintendent 
put  upon  the  "here." 

"Yessir.    I— I " 

"Do  you  know  the  rules?" 

Joey  gulped  and  nodded  guiltily. 

"And  yet  —  "the  great  voice  of  the  Superintendent  rose 
to  a  roar  — "and  yet,  you  little  rascal,  you  looked  at  the 
clock!" 

A  tremor  ran  through  all  who  heard.  Now  they  realized 
for  the  first  time  the  truly  heinous  qualities  of  Joey's  crime. 
He  had  looked  at  the  clock!  It  was  not  six!  Nothing 
more  need  be  said.  They  waited  to  hear  the  verdict. 

It  came  in  the  form  of  a  surprise.  The  Superintendent 
merely  turned  Joey  around  so  he  again  faced  the  table, 
pushed  him  roughly  against  it,  and  said:  "Next  time,  out 
you  go.  Now  speed  along  and  catch  up  your  work,  you 
little  loafer!" 

And  with  this  the  Superintendent  passed  down  the 
aisle,  while  behind  him  Joey  tore  wildly  at  his  work,  sick 
from  the  shock,  but  happy  because  he  had  not  been 
"fired."  And  all  around  there  was  a  strange  atmosphere, 
an  atmosphere  that  might  fit  around  nothing  so  well  as 
the  scene  of  an  interrupted  execution. 


CHAPTER  HI 

DON'T  you  care,  Joey." 
Delia  was  first  to  recover  courage  and  speak. 
Delia  usually  did  speak  first  as  well  as  last, 
when  the  occasion  required.  Even  in  factory  garb  Delia 
was  very  pretty;  her  little  red  lips  being  rather  too  full  for 
her  white  face,  and  her  light  blue  eyes  too  much  like  the 
eyes  of  a  china  doll  to  win  her  the  title  of  beautiful.  The 
eyes  had  done  the  work  for  Freddy,  however,  and  the  tall 
and  thin,  freckled,  and  grinning  fellow  hovered  about  her 
in  a  way  that  Delia  pretended  to  despise.  She  couldn't 
do  anything  else;  it  isn't  proper  in  the  district  to  show  a 
fellow  that  he  stands  high  in  your  opinion. 

Freddy  was  a  person  of  some  importance.  As  a  gentle- 
man who  played  the  violin  in  such  startling  and  original 
fashion  as  to  have  won  him  a  certain  degree  of  fame  among 
the  cheaper  variety  theatres,  he  was  some  one  to  look  up 
to  in  the  Factory.  He  practised  whenever  he  wasn't 
calling  on  Delia  when  the  day's  work  was  over.  Some 
day,  said  Freddy,  his  name  would  be  on  the  bills;  at 
which  Delia  would  toss  her  head  and  sniff  in  false 
contempt. 

"Don't  you  care."  Delia's  cheering  voice  came  rat- 
tling through  the  clatter  of  the  machines,  for  the  machines 
did  not  pause  for  the  convenience  of  conversation. 

21 


22  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"When  he  just  talks  you're  all  right.  Cheer  up.  Six 
o'clock  soon.  Ain't  so,  Freddy  —  or  don't  you  know 
that,  either?" 

"Cheer  up  is  right,  Joey,"  said  Freddy,  performing 
his  wonderful  feat  of  wriggling  his  scalp,  ears,  and  all. 
"As  her  leddyship  says: 

'*  "Six  o'clock  will  soon  be  here, 
Oh,  hear  the  whistles  blow! " 

"Get  out!"  A  supercilious  raising  of  the  upper  lip  by 
Delia.  "You  and  your  funny  work.  I  suppose  you'd 
do  a  song  and  dance  at  your  own  funeral." 

"I  might  if  I  was  asked,  yer  leddyship." 

"Come  off!" 

"But  I  don't  see  anybody  wearing  any  wooden  over- 
coats around  here." 

Although  Freddy's  words  were  full  of  leisure  and 
banter,  there  was  no  hitch  in  the  fierce  speed  of  the 
machines. 

"No.  Nobody  dead."  Delia's  sarcasm,  too,  crept 
through  the  clatter.  "World  ain't  come  to  an  end  yet, 
either,  has  it?  But  with  the  Supe  throwing  the  boots 
into  Joey,  and  the  big  row  staring  us  in  the  face  — 

Ah!  She  bit  her  tongue.  She  had  forgotten.  They 
must  not  discuss  the  Dread  Subject  before  Joey.  He 
had  enough  to  stand  without  worrying  about  that, 
poor  kid. 

But  Joey  had  heard  and  understood,  for  the  subject  was 
on  the  tongues  of  all,  inspiring  an  atmosphere  of  dread 
throughout  the  Factory. 


23 

"  Will  there  be  a  row,  and  will  they  lay  us  off,  as  some 
say,  Freddy?"  he  piped. 

"Don't  know,  Joey." 

"I  heard  some  men  talking  at  noon.  They  said  they 
were  going  to  cut  our  pay.  That  right?" 

"Don't  know.  Talk's  cheap,  Joey.  Everybody's 
talking.  They  act  like  they  knew  it  all,  and  all  they've 
been  doing  is  sucking  in  the  gas  that  Rinehart  hands  out 
up  at  the  corner  nights." 

"But  will  they  cut  our  pay,  d'you  think?"  asked 
Delia  anxiously.  She  looked  concerned,  and  the  effect 
spoiled  the  pretty  red  mouth. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Freddy,  curtly.  "Ain't  I 
telling  you  nobody  knows.  Rinehart's  the  boy  to  wise 
you  up.  He'll  dish  out  the  gas  up  at  the  corner  again 
to-night,  I  s'pose."  He  waited  a  moment,  straightened 
himself  on  his  stool,  and  then  delivered  himself  of  this 
portentous  remark:  "As  for  me,  know  all  men  by  these 
presents  that  I  ain't  worrying." 

"Hah?"  Delia  flashed  a  look  from  the  china-doll  eyes 
that  frankly  admitted  the  proportions  of  the  surprise 
that  Freddy's  words  had  wrought. 

"I  ain't  worrying." 

"You    ain't?" 

"Nope." 

Delia  flashed  over  three  or  four  looks  of  shrewd  investi- 
gation, but  Freddy  was  serious,  or,  at  least,  as  nearly  serious 
as  that  merry  young  man  could  be  on  such  short  notice. 

"Why  ain't  you  worrying?  Everybody  else  is.  It's 
got  the  place  hah*  crazy." 


24  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Because  I  don't  have  to,  that's  why."  Freddy 
wriggled  his  ears.  Evidently  something  was  up. 

"You  don't  have  to  worry  about  whether  there's  a 
cut  in  our  pay,  or  whether  there's  a  strike,  or  any- 
thing?" 

Words  cannot  express  the  amazement  and  incredulity 
which  were  expressed  hi  Delia's  broken  speech.  Not  to 
worry  about  one's  pay?  Not  to  worry  about  the  chance 
to  work?  Surely  there  was  no  such  condition  in 
all  this  world! 

"Wait,  only  wait,  yer  leddyship,"  retorted  Freddy  in 
the  sepulchral  tones  of  West  Side  melodrama.  "To- 
night— to-ni-yut  you  shall  know  all." 

"Ah,  cut  it  out.    You  think  you're  too  wise." 

"Not  a  bit."  Freddy  resumed  his  normal  tone  of 
voice.  "It's  the  Gawd's  truth,  Delia,  and  you  don't 
have  to  worry  either." 

But  that  was  too  much  for  Delia,  and  she  broke  into 
a  little  bitter  laughter,  her  under-lip  trembling  as  she 
remarked  casually  that  it  wasn't  funny  to  make  fun  of  a 
pal  like  that. 

"No  kidding,  Delia.  You'll  see  to-night,"  said 
Freddy. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Delia  scornfully,  "that  you've  made 
such  a  hit  with  your  fiddling  that  you  can  quit  work  and 
retire?" 

But  Freddy  only  wriggled  his  ears. 

"To-night,  to-ni-yut,"  he  repeated,  "you  shall  know 
all.  We  go  to  a  show,  you  and  me,  to-night,  understand? 
We  scramble  into  two  orchestra  chairs  down  near  the 


25 

front  of  the  Imperial.  And  there,  right  then  and  there, 
yer  leddyship,  I'll — I'll  slip  you  some  big  news." 

"Orchestra  chairs!  You  can't  afford  it,  and  you  know 
I  know  you  can't.  What's  the  use  of  dreaming?" 

"Ssh!     Not  a  word  to  mother.     I  got  two  passes." 

"Yes,  you  have."  Delia  persisted  in  being  a  little 
cynic.  "Where  from?" 

"Ah!  That's  part  of  the  fatal  secret,  to  be  continued 
in  our  next.  But,  anyhow,  we  go,  don't  we?" 

"Sure,"  said  Delia,  her  eager  nod  hinting  at  what  the 
treat  meant  to  her.  Then,  "O-oh,  say!"  she  cried,  "I 
forgot.  I  promised  Miss  Ruth  to  go  with  her  to  her 

meeting  in  the  Park  this  evening,  and oh,  say; 

it's  too  bad,  ain't  it?" 

"Miss  Ruth?"  repeated  Freddy  with  great  respect. 
"Well,  if  you  promised  her " 

"Don't  think  for  a  minute  I  don't  want  to  do  it." 
Delia  instantly  was  all  afire.  "Don't  think  I  don't 
like  to  hear  Miss  Ruth  talk,  because  I  love  it.  Yes,  I 
love  it,  honest.  She  jerked  me  up  all  right.  I  certainly 
was  something  fierce  until  I  met  her,  and  goodness 
knows  what  I  might  have  come  to.  When  she  begins 
to  talk  to  you  it's  like  —  like " 

"I  know."  Freddy  searched  his  soul  for  the  accurate 
phrase.  "Like  Sunday  morning  after  a  bath  at  the 
barber  shop,  and  the  bells  ringing  up  the  Avenue." 

"Something  like  that."     Delia  was  silent  for  awhile. 

The   machines  ran  on. 

"They  got  a  swell  show  down  at  the  Imperial  this 
week,"  said  Freddy,  casually.  Delia's  eyes  glistened. 


26  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Well,"  she  said,  yielding  grudgingly  to  temptation. 
"Passes  won't  keep,  will  they?" 

"Nit,"    said    Freddy. 

"Well,"  sighed  Delia,  "I  suppose  Miss  Ruth'll  have 
other  meetings." 

"Sure,  said  Freddy.  "And  to-night's  a  big  night 
for  us." 

"Shut  up,"  warned  Delia.  "The  Supe's  coming  back 
this  way." 

The  machines  clattered  on.  The  weary  hands  moved 
to  and  fro.  It  grew  darker.  The  air  grew  warmer. 
It  was  like  .the  air  of  a  vault  —  dead,  sickening.  And 
little  Joey,  between  pondering  on  the  problem  of  the 
possible  wage-cut,  wondered  if  he  would  last  out  the  day. 

But  all  things  must  have  an  end,  even  a  factory 
Saturday  afternoon.  In  spite  of  Joey's  growing  dis- 
belief in  such  an  eventuality,  the  whistle  finally  gave  the 
welcome  signal,  and  Joey  leaned  forward  and  rested 
heavily  against  the  table.  Freddy  promptly  leaped  off 
his  stool  and  made  for  the  wash  room,  and  Delia  promptly 
fussed  with  her  back  hair. 

"See?"  she  said  triumphantly.  "What'd  I  tell  you, 
Joey?  Six  o'clock  always  comes.  S'pose  Miss  Ruth'll 
come  to  see  us  home?" 

"I  don't  know."  Joey  was  feeling  bad.  Even  this 
name,  at  which  ordinarily  his  great  eyes  would  have 
shone  with  delight,  failed  to  rouse  him. 

"I  guess  she  will  all  right,"  continued  Delia,  diving 
under  the  table  for  her  hat,  which  lay  there  covered  by 
a  newspaper.  "Ain't  she  the  grandest  ever,  though? 


Joey  the  Dreamer  27 

Think  of  anybody  who  could  be  riding  around  in  ottos 
bothering  about  us!  Wouldn't  catch  me  doing  it;  I 
tell  you  those." 

The  paper  was  off  the  hat  now,  and  the  hat  was 
being  pinned  on  the  light  hair.  Joey  still  leaned  against 
the  table. 

"Get  your  ca^  and — why  — why,  what's  the  matter, 
Joey?  What's  matter  witchou?" 

Joey  was  leaning  farther  over  the  table.  His  face 
could  be  no  whiter  than  usual,  but  it  was  plain  that  some- 
thing more  than  usual  was  wrong. 

"I  donno,"  he  said,  and  slid  into  a  queer  little  bundle 
on  the  floor. 

"Why,  Joey!"  cried  Delia,  shocked  at  such  conduct. 
Then  in  alarm:  "Here,  here!  Look  here.  Joey's  gone 
and  fainted  dead  away!" 

In  the  eager  hurry  of  all  to  get  out  of  the  Factory  in 
the  shortest  time  possible,  the  cry  failed  to  arose  any 
great  excitement.  A  group  of  half  a  dozen  gathered 
around,  jostling  one  another  for  a  better  view  of  the 
little  white  face,  proffering  several  kinds  of  advice,  and 
calling  for  water  with  great  enthusiasm.  Delia  took  one 
of  the  limp  hands  between  her  own  and  proceeded  to  rub 
it  aimlessly,  and  after  awhile  somebody  brought  the  water. 
Under  these  ministrations  Joey  began  to  betray  feeble 
signs  of  life,  but  hiseyes  failed  to  open,  and  the  group 
grew  hushed  in  alarm.  Fainting  was  nothing  out 
of  the  ordinary  in  the  Factory,  but  this  looked  like 
something  worse. 

"What  shall  we  do?     What  shall  we  do?"  cried  Delia. 


28  Joey  the  Dreamer 

And  instantly  she  answered  her  own  question.  "Some- 
body run  and  see  if  Miss  Ruth  is  waiting  outside." 

But  there  was  no  need  for  this,  for  one  of  the  girls 
called:  "Here  she  is  now,"  and  the  circle  opened  up  and 
Ruth  came  hurrying  to  Joey's  side.  And  the  girls  forgot 
about  Joey  and  began  to  study  the  vision. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Ruth ! "  cried  Delia.  "  How  good  you  come ! 
Here  I  was  pinning  on  my  hat,  and  all  of  a  sudden  down 
goes  Joey,  and  we've  soused  him  with  water  and  every- 
thing and  he  don't  come  to." 

The  vision  knelt  down.  She  lifted  Joey's  head  to  her 
arm  and  wiped  the  dust  from  his  water-streaked  face. 
She  lifted  him  in  her  arms,  and  started  down  the  aisle. 
Her  lips  were  set  tightly. 

"Bring  his  cap,  please,  Delia,  and  ring  up  his  time," 
she  called. 

Near  the  door  she  met  the  Superintendent. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,"  said  Ruth.  "It  was  after  Six  when  he 
fainted." 


CHAPTER  IV 

RUTH  came  out  and  seated  herself  on  the  Factory 
steps  with  Joey  on  her  lap.  This  sort  of  thing 
was  new  to  me;  what  was  the  proper  thing  to  do? 

"Let  me  hold  him,"  I  said  lamely.  "He  is  too  heavy 
for  you." 

"Too  heavy!  Look!"  She  drew  the  collar  down 
from  Joey's  neck  and  opened  his  shirt.  I  looked  once, 
then  I  am  afraid  I  looked  away.  Much  newspaper  work, 
some  roughing  it,  and  a  little  big  game  shooting  has,  I 
believe,  left  me  with  at  least  as  little  squeamishness  as 
the  average  man.  I  had  seen  these  things  before,  too, 
but  never  in  one  that  I  knew.  It  makes  a  difference. 
I  stood  helpless. 

Joey  lay  as  if  sleeping.  His  head  hung  limply  over  his 
shoulder,  and  his  breath  came  in  hungry  little  gulps  — 
gulps  that  lifted  the  breastbone  and  ribs  till  they  seemed 
ready  to  burst  the  skin.  He  did  not  move.  And  the 
out-going  crowd  rushed  past  with  scarcely  a  look.  Kid 
dropped  in  the  shops?  Ought  to  be  glad  he  wasn't  dead. 

The  Factory  emptied  itself.  The  tumult  of  home- 
going  died  down  from  a  crazy  roar  to  a  steady  murmur. 
Twilight  began  to  come  on  in  the  smoky  cross  street. 
Joey  lay  as  if  sleeping  in  Ruth's  arms. 

I  was  able  to  utter  the  conventional  thought  now. 

29 


30  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"We  must  have  a  doctor,  mustn't  we?  Where  can 
I  find  one?" 

Ruth  shook  her  head.  "It  isn't  worth  while.  He 
will  be  able  to  go  home  soon." 

"But  he's  really  ill,  isn't  he?" 

Faith,  he  looked  more  than  ill. 

"Only  a  faint.  Call  it  what  you  please.  It's  common 
over  here.  He  will  be  able  to  walk  soon." 

Here  Joey  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes,  looking  around 
with  that  puzzled  expression  peculiar  to  returning 
consciousness. 

"Feeling  better,  Joey?" 

"Yes'm." 

"Do  you  feel  strong  enough  to  walk?" 

"No'm." 

Joey's  eyes  closed  again,  but  presently  he  sat  up  and 
laid  a  hand  on  his  stomach. 

"It's  here,  Miss  Ruth." 

"What   is   it,  Joey?" 

"Nothing."  Which,  considering  that  Joey  that  day, 
as  many  others,  had  gone  without  his  luncheon,  prob- 
ably was  an  accurate  diagnosis  of  the  case.  Noticing 
that  he  was  on  Ruth's  lap  the  boy  scrambled  up  on  his 
shaking  legs. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said  stoutly.  But  he  wasn't.  He 
took  two  steps  down  the  stairs  and  promptly  collapsed. 

"Wait  a  little,  Joey.  There's  no  hurry.  Wait  until 
you're  stronger." 

"Yes'm."  He  was  quite  satisfied  to  sit  down  where 
he  was.  He  had  found  that  his  legs  still  lacked  strength 


Joey  the  Dreamer  31 

to  be  proper  articles  to  walk  on.  So  he  curled  up  and 
waited. 

Ruth  sat  in  a  silence  that  suggested  complete  ab- 
straction. She  had  dropped  her  chin  in  her  hands,  and 
her  great  eyes  looked  mournfully  out  into  the  barren 
street  and  saw  nothing,  as  the  eyes  of  one  who  dreams. 
There  was  pain  in  her  eyes  now,  and  in  the  firm  little 
mouth,  pain  and  wonder,  for  she,  too,  was  not  yet  ac- 
customed to  the  ways  of  the  life  about  her.  And  she 
was  too  tender,  too  much  a  vessel  of  emotion  to  hide  the 
workings  of  her  pitying  heart. 

The  street  grew  empty  and  darker.  Presently  Ruth 
began  to  speak,  her  voice  little  more  than  a  passionate 
whisper,  the  words  rolling  from  her  tongue  with  no 
perceptible  effort,  her  eyes  still  looking  unseeingly  into 
the  gathering  gloom  around  us. 

"Joey  fainted  at  his  work.  He  is  too  weak  to  work. 
He  doesn't  get  enough  to  eat.  Yet  he  must  work  or 
starve.  So  he  works,  and  drops  at  his  bench.  .  .  . 
Can  the  thing  really  be  true  in  this  great,  rich  city?" 

She  paused  and  her  breath  came  in  like  a  sob.  She 
wanted  no  answer,  and  I  made  none.  After  awhile  she 
went  on  as  before. 

"They  are  talking  of  a  wage-cut  in  this  Factory.  Think 
of  it !  Joey's  wages  can't  buy  him  enough  to  eat.  'Here,' 
says  the  world,  'are  some  helpless  ones;  let  us  take  ad- 
vantage of  them,  because  they  are  helpless.  They  have 
no  champions,  no  ministers  to  take  their  part,  they  can 
make  no  defence.  We  will  load  on  them  the  burdens 
which  we  would  not  dare  to  load  on  those  who  are  not 


32  Joey  the  Dreamer 

helpless.  We  will  do  as  we  please  with  them,  because 
we  can.'  Isn't  it  strange  conduct  in  a  world  that  pro- 
fesses to  have  accepted  Jesus  Christ?" 

Her  words  ceased  abruptly  and  there  was  silence.  A 
steamer  whistled  hoarsely  down  hi  the  river.  Joey  arose 
and  looked  up  inquiringly.  And  his  thin  neck  showed 
plainly  what  ailed  him. 

"How  can  that  be?"  whispered  Ruth.  "Surely  there 
is  plenty  of  food  in  this  world  —  at  least  in  this  country?" 

There  was,  certainly  there  was. 

"Well,  can't  the  world  see  that  Joey  hasn't  had  his 
share?  Are  people  blind?  Is  the  world  blind?  Does 
it  know  what  it  does  to  the  helpless?" 

"It  doesn't  appreciate  —  as  you  do.  It  wouldn't 
sleep  well  if  it  did,"  I  suggested. 

"No.  If  it  knew  —  there  would  be  an  end  to  it.  And 
we  who  have  seen,  we  must  tell  the  others  and  make  them 
see.  Oh,  John!  I  feel  that  I  must  do  what  little  I  can. 
I  am  driven  to  it.  This  crisis  over  the  wage-cut  is  a  crime 
—  a  crime !  I  will  beg  and  plead  with  the  world  for  it  to 
open  its  eyes  and  see.  And  it  must  see.  Good  is  domi- 
nant in  man.  He  does  not  know  how  unfair  he  is  —  that 
is  all.  When  he  hears,  when  he  knows,  and  sees,  and 
understands  —  all  these  things  will  change.  They  will, 
I  know  they  will." 

It  grew  quiet  in  the  cross  street.  Out  on  the  Avenue 
the  feet  of  the  home-going  army  sent  up  their  steady 
murmur.  Joey  stood  still  and  looked  up  at  Ruth's  face, 
and  in  his  eyes  there  was  something  of  the  dumb  hunger 
that  is  in  the  eyes  of  a  faithful  dog  when  he  looks  into 


Joey  the  Dreamer  33 

his  master's  eyes  and  wishes  to  speak  and  to  be  understood. 
I  said:  "You  are  going  to  speak  to  these  people  in  the 
Park  to-night,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes."  She  arose  and  stretched  out  a  hand  to  Joey. 
The  dreamer  vanished  with  that  movement,  and  she  was 
again  the  practical,  deft-handed  helper. 

"Feeling   stronger,  Joey?" 

"Sure.     I'm  all  right." 

He  took  a  few  steps  to  prove  it.  This  time  the  legs 
held  up. 

Ruth  took  him  by  one  hand. 

"We  will  go  home,  then,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  new  experience.  I  took  him  by  the  other  hand 
—  oh,  my  masters,  what  a  hand! 

"We'll  all  go  home  together,"  I  said. 

"Gee!"  said  Joey,  gripping  feebly.    "That'll  be  swell." 

Westward  into  the  Avenue  we  went,  that  great 
thoroughfare  which,  like  a  giant  sword-cut  slits  the  dis- 
trict in  two,  and  through  which  each  evening  passes  a  sul- 
len, defeated  army,  the  army  of  the  workers  going  home. 

It  was  lighter  out  there  in  the  Avenue.  The  sun,  a 
blood-red  wafer  in  the  distant  smoke  haze,  hung  at  its 
end  like  a  lantern  at  the  mouth  of  a  tunnel.  But  all  the 
heavens  and  all  the  universe  seemed  filled  with  a  jumbled 
pall  of  greasy  gray  smoke,  through  which  the  light  of 
day  filtered  down  to  the  city,  not  as  daylight,  but  as 
illumination  from  some  great  sulphurous  lamp.  Yes,  it 
was  lighter  in  the  Avenue,  but  it  was  not  a  light  to  cheer. 

And  in  this  light  the  army  was  going  home.  The 
greater  part  of  its  numbers  had  passed,  for  it  was.  late,  and 


34  Joey  the  Dreamer 

the  stragglers  remained,  the  halt,  the  weak,  the  ex- 
cessively weary  and  unfortunate;  but  even  these  were  an 
army  in  numbers.  And  like  an  army  they  moved,  a 
broken  army,  hopelessly  wriggling  its  way  up  the  Avenue, 
one  idea  dominating  it,  one  desire  drawing  it  to  a  common 
goal:  to  get  home  and  feed.  Beyond  this  —  nothing. 
The  dragging  feet  beat  a  certain  rhythm;  but  the  motif 
was  not  nice  to  hear. 

In  that  smoky  light  all  things  were  dirty  to  the  eye,  and 
this  very  murkiness  seemed  to  make  certain  things  stand 
out  which  might  not  have  been  striking  in  the  light  of 
day.  Seen  in  the  gloomy  light,  the  weariness  of  flesh 
and  bone  and  soul  was  all  too  evident.  The  emptiness 
of  the  faces  cried  out  as  faces  from  some  master-painter's 
brush,  for  here  and  at  this  time  one  could  not  fail  to  note 
the  tale  that  rode  in  the  stream  of  countenances,  the  tale 
of  all  things  missing  save  the  spark  of  life. 

White,  weary  faces.  The  white  skin  hugs  the  ill- 
formed  bone,  following  the  contour  closely  for  want  of  a 
red  meat  cushion  between.  The  eyes — eyes  drunk  with 
the  unconscious  pleading  of  dying  souls,  eyes  as  hopeless 
as  the  blank  eyes  of  the  dead,  or  worse.  The  dragging 
bodies,  hopelessly  dragging,  dragging  on.  And  the  curses, 
the  lack  of  hope,  everywhere  apparent. 

For  there  was  none  here  to  whom  life  had  been,  was, 
or  promised  to  be,  a  thing  of  pleasure.  The  game  was 
too  serious,  the  rules  too  strict,  the  penalty  for  losing  too 
awful,  the  reward  too  small,  to  make  the  playing  of  it 
any  fun.  One  might  have  wondered  why  these  hopeless 
ones  saw  fit  to  play  at  all. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  35 

This  is  what  one  may  see  in  the  smoky  Avenue  at  this 
time  in  the  evening  if  he  cares  to  look.  It  was  appalling, 
it  was  too  big.  I  told  Ruth  so. 

"Can't  you  hear  the  song?"  She  was  looking  far 
away  toward  the  setting  sun  where  the  head  of  the 
straggling  army  lost  itself  somewhere  in  the  coming  night. 

"The  song?" 

"The  song  of  hope.  A  tiny  song;  but  can't  you  hear 
it  in  the  roar  of  hopelessness?" 

" Can  you  really  hear  it?  "  The  time  and  the  place  had 
me,  too,  in  its  grip,  for  the  scene  is  one  of  awe. 

"Distinctly.  It  is  a  song  of  brotherhood.  Hear  the 
rhythm  of  those  hundreds  of  feet!  Hear  their  bea£ 
upon  the  walk!  Can't  you  hear  that  note?  All  one,  one 
flesh,  one  blood,  one  family;  alike  in  joy,  and  hope,  and 
sorrow;  brothers  and  sisters  in  humanity!  It's  there, 
John,  it's  there!  I  can  hear  it;  and  all  that  it  needs  is  a 
tongue  to  utter  it  and  make  us  understand.  Brotherhood ! 
It  is  there.  Surely,  John,  you  can't  fail  to  hear  it?" 

I  tried  hard  to  follow  her  and  failed. 

"I  don't  hear  anything  of  the  sort,"  I  said. 

"Your  ears  are  deaf  from  the  din  of  down  town." 

"Perhaps.     They  — ah!" 

Clay  Court  was  before  us,  and  a  few  steps  down  the 
Court  a  small  man  stood  on  a  soap  box  and  talked  to  a 
crowd;  and  the  crowd  swore  back  its  approval. 

"Is  this,  too,  part  of  the  song?"  I  asked. 

"Even  this,"  said  Ruth.  "It  is  God  stirring  hi  the 
hearts  of  men  that  makes  them  discontented." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  man  on  the  box  was  Rinehart.  He  was  a 
yellow  little  man  with  little  wild  eyes  that  showed 
too  much  of  the  whites,  and  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  shriek,  even  in  a  whisper.  Under  the  stress  of  ex- 
citement, which  was  whenever  he  spoke,  he  trembled  from 
head  to  finger  tips,  like  the  vibration  of  an  over-engined 
boat.  He  was  our  prophet,  and  he  had  been  educa- 
ting Clay  Court  ever  since  the  Presidential  campaign 
had  begun. 

His  teaching  was  awful. 

"Bloody  Murder,"  the  young  men  called  him.  But 
after  all  he  was  as  inevitable  then  and  there  on  that  soap 
box  as  the  rumble  of  thunder  in  the  gathering  clouds  of 
a  storm.  He  was  our  safety-valve,  and  during  these  hot, 
excited  weeks  a  safety-valve  was  of  all  things  what  we 
needed.  Rinehart  told  us  what  we  wanted  to  hear,  what 
we  would  have  said  had  we  had  his  tongue.  A  safety- 
valve?  Nay,  more  than  that,  greater  than  that!  Rine- 
hart was  an  epic  poet,  viciously  chanting  the  bitter  song 
that  brewed  in  the  hearts  of  men  day  by  day. 

He  used  to  shift  his  box  from  one  side  of  the  Court  to 
the  other.  One  evening  he  was  on  the  side  before  the 
refreshment  establishment  of  Mr.  Mehaffey;  the  next  he 
was  across  the  street,  bringing  his  enthralled  hearers 

36 


Joey  the  Dreamer  37 

within  the  glare  of  the  lights  of  Mr.  Sodders.  The  two 
saloons  stood  like  sentinels  at  a  lodge  gate  to  the  Court. 
On  the  west  the  ornate  place  of  Mehaffey,  with  this  sign 
over  the  side  door: 


LADIES  CAN  MAKE   THEIR   PURCHASES  HERE 

On  the  east: 

SODDERS,  THE  BIGGEST  BEER  ON  THE  WEST  SIDE, 
BAR  NONE 

And  on  a  good  hot  day  the  odour  of  stale  beer 
swept  forth  into  the  street  from  the  door  of  each 
place,  met  half-way,  and  established  a  rich,  fat 
barrier  which  one  must  penetrate  to  enter  Clay  Court. 
At  night  the  saloon  lights  helped  out  the  single  gas  lamp 
in  its  unequal  struggle  against  the  sooty  gloom.  There 
was  only  one  other  night  light  beside  these  —  the  lamp 
sign  in  the  basement  of  the  Tenement: 

MRS.  O.  HANSEN,  MIDWIFE 

So  perhaps  it  was  only  a  desire  for  light  that  prompted 
Rinehart  to  speak  at  the  corners. 

He  was  a  wizard.  Promptly  at  eight  he  would  step 
forth  from  some  hidden  corner,  an  old  disciple  would 
produce  the  box,  Rinehart  would  mount  it,  and  five 
minutes  later  the  men  let  their  pipes  go  out  while  they 
listened.  But  he  had  outdone  himself  to-night.  He 


38  Joey  the  Dreamer 

had  caught  his  crowd  going  home.  It  was  a  triumph. 
They  were  hurrying  hunger  driven  to  the  evening  food, 
and  he  stopped  them.  He  held  them.  They  forgot  the 
emptiness  in  the  belly,  they  forgot  the  food.  Rinehart 
was  feeding  them  stronger  stuff,  and  in  these  days  these 
men  were  growing  ravenous  for  something  beside  mere 
food.  For  food  without  hope  is  a  useless  diet  for  man. 

We  must  listen  to  Rinehart  as  he  pours  out  the  fires 
of  his  soul  this  warm  Saturday  evening.  He  is  wordy 
and  he  is  wild,  but  he  was  the  tongue  of  the  people  with 
whom  we  are  dealing.  Others  felt;  Rinehart  thought 
and  put  it  in  harsh,  hot  words.  And  he  was  at  his  best, 
or  worst,  as  we  sent  Joey  on  to  the  Tenement  and  stepped 
into  a  hallway  to  listen.  His  eyes  gleamed  with  a  hint 
of  the  power  of  the  devils  that  drove  him,  and  there  was 
a  fleck  of  white  foam  in  each  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"And  this  year,"  Rinehart  was  saying,  "they're  going 
to  do  two  things  to  you;  they're  going  to  elect  a  President 
to  boss  you,  and  they're  going  to  cut  your  wages.  What? 
You  think  you've  got  anything  to  say  about  this  elec- 
tion that's  coming  on?  Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  you 
haven't,  not  any  more  than  you  have  about  your  wages. 
They  fix  it  up  for  you;  they  elect  him;  they  pick  him 
out  —  both  parties  —  and  you  vote  for  him,  and  they  win 
no  matter  who's  elected." 

He  exploded  a  series  of  gestures  indicative  of  severe 
contempt. 

"You  —  why,  they  don't  know  you're  living.  You 
keep  so  quiet,  and  take  your  medicine  so  much  as  if  you 
liked  it  that  they  forget  you're  alive.  Why,  if 


Joey  the  Dreamer  39 

you  was  to  go  up  to  the  President  and  say:  "Here, 
Mr.  President,  I  voted  for  you,  and  you  ought  to 
do  something  to  make  'em  stop  this  wage-cut,  he'd  look 
you  over  and  say:  'Who  the  hell  are  you?  A  working 
man?  Why,  the  gall  of  you!  Ain't  you  getting  wages? 
Ain't  you  living?  What  more  d'you  want?  Go  on. 
Get  to  hell  out  of  here  back  to  where  you  belong.' 
That's  what  he'd  say.  And  you  got  to  get,  too,  because 
you  haven't  got  anything  to  say  about  it." 

As  usual,  he  began  to  tremble  now,  legs,  hands,  head,, 
voice,  quivering  with  the  fires  that  drove  him. 

"Oh,  we're  a  fine  bunch  of  suckers!  Ain't  we  men? 
Ain't  we  got  heads,  and  arms,  and  hands?  Sure,  we 
have.  Then  what  right  has  another  man  got  to  kick  us 
around?  What  right?  It  ain't  the  right  of  might, 
because  we've  got  the  might,  if  we  want  to  use  it.  Yes- 
sir;  you've  got  the  might.  You've  got  the  numbers. 
Right  here  in  the  grip  of  your  good  right  fist  you've  got 
the  power  to  make  the  other  fellow  take  his  feet  off  your 
neck  and  turn  white  and  run.  You've  got  the  strength 
to  change  yourself  from  the  worm  to  the  boss.  You've 
got  the  strength,  brothers,  you've  got  the  strength  —  if 
you'd  only  use  it!" 

He  drove  his  fist  against  his  forearm  to  indicate  how 
strength  might  be  used. 

"Just  stop  and  think  it  over  for  awhile,  fellows;  see 
what  it  means.  Here  you're  going  along  like  a  lot  of 
whipped  dogs,  taking  whatever  the  boss  slips  you,  and 
glad  to  get  it.  The  other  fellow  looks  you  over,  we'll  say, 
and  he  thinks  you're  getting  too  strong  for  his  good  — 


40  Joey  the  Dreamer 

thinks  you're  getting  wages  enough  to  make  you  half- 
way independent,  we'll  say.  What  happens?  He  shuts 
up  his  fist  and  squeezes  the  heart  out  of  you,  with  a  cut, 
and  you're  good  and  helpless  for  a  long  while  again.  And 
at  the  same  time  you're  the  strongest.  You  could  pick 
these  bosses  of  yours  off  their  feet  and  hold  'em  up  in 
your  two  good  hands  and  say,  'Whistle  for  me  or  I'll 
break  you  in  two.'  You're  the  master,  if  you  want  to 
be;  but  you  let  them  run  you  into  the  dirt  without 
a  word. 

"Why,  fellows,  it's  like  some  great  big  six-footer  with 
a  big  arm  and  hair  on  his  chest  letting  a  little  five-foot-two 
rat  in  spectacles  run  him.  The  big  guy  —  that's  you  — 
makes  something  —  brings  something  into  this  world  with 
his  skill  and  strength  —  wagon  wheel  spokes,  we'll  say  — 
and  the  little  fellow  takes  'em  away,  sells  them,  and 
hands  the  fellow  who  made  them  —  you,  remember  — 
enough  to  live  on  —  so  he  can  keep  on  making  more 
spokes.  Big  guy  keeps  on  working;  little  guy  gets  rich 
on  the  product.  Whenever  he  feels  that  his  slave  is 
getting  fresh,  or  beginning  to  think  for  himself,  he  hands 
him  a  slap  in  the  face  and  says,  'Cut  it  out,  now;  or  I'll 
fire  you  and  won't  let  you  make  any  more  spokes  for  me 
to  get  rich  on.'  And  that's  just  about  what  the  situation 
is  between  labour  —  the  men  who  do  the  work  —  and 
capital  —  which  gets  all  the  benefit. 

"Ain't  it  a  fine  situation  for  men  to  submit  to?  Why, 
now,  just  to  show  you  how  you  stand  right  here  this  very 
day;  you're  fine  examples  right  now.  You  had  your 
wages  cut  last  winter,  didn't  you?  How  much  were  you 


Joey  the  Dreamer  41 

getting  before  that  cut?  Enough  to  live  on  decently? 
Hah?  No.  Enough  to  exist  on?  Sure.  Just  enough 
to  exist  on  —  no  more.  What  were  they  getting  —  the 
Company?  Hah?  Well,  I  don't  know,  because  I  ain't 
used  to  figuring  in  millions,  but  I  know  that  Warman, 
the  president,  spent  four  million  on  his  new  place  out 
near  Lake  Forest,  and  his  youngest  kid  got  delirium 
tremens  in  New  York.  Too  much  champagne,  while 
your  kids  were  dying  of  rotten  milk.  But  you  had  to 
stand  the  cut,  just  the  same;  they  didn't  need  the  5 
per  cent,  they  took  off,  but  they  wanted  it;  and  they  knew 
right  where  to  go  for  it  without  making  any  trouble. 
So  they  cut  your  wages;  they  soaked  the  fellow  who 
didn't  have  guts  enough  to  make  the  come-back." 

He  paused  for  breath  but  was  at  it  again  before  the 
spell  lifted. 

"Well,  that  left  you  how  much?  How  much?  How 
much  you  getting  now?  Enough  to  live  on?  Answer: 
are  you?" 

"No,"  growled  a  surly  voice.  "No,  no,"  grumbled 
others  and  there  was  an  uneasy  clearing  of  throats. 

"No.  No!  Not  enough  to  live  on.  Just  enough  — 
just  enough  to  keep  you  alive  —  and  now  what  next?" 

Rinehart  stopped  dead  short  and  sneered  in  their 
faces. 

"Why  what  d'you  expect?  What  can  you  expect 
so  long  as  you  stand  for  all  they  hand  you?  —  Another  cut, 
of  course.  Another  cut  —  on  top  of  the  others.  Another 
cut  into  the  wages  that  give  you  only  enough  to  keep  the 
breath  of  life  in  your  bodies !  Another  cut  into  the  bread 


42  Joey  the  Dreamer 

and  potatoes  and  meat  you  put  into  the  mouths  of  your 
kids!  Another  cut  into  your  lives!  —  Because  —  you 
stand  for  it." 

His  voice  had  risen  to  a  shriek,  a  cry  almost  wild 
animal  like,  and  suddenly  it  subsided.  The  sneer  came 
back  to  his  face.  He  had  placed  them  on  trial.  What 
would  they  say  in  reply?  What  could  they  say? 
"  Well  they  ain't  made  the  cut  yet,"  said  a  surly  young 
man. 

"No,"  Rinehart  nodded  gravely.  "They  hain't  made 
it  yet.  You're  still  living." 

"Maybe  it's  all  talk.  Maybe  they  won't  do  it.  How 
d'you  know?" 

The  young  man  did  not  relish  being  laughed  at. 

"Maybe  the  last  one  was  all  talk,  too.  Maybe  it  was; 
look  in  your  pay  envelope  and  see." 

That  told.  They  knew  from  experience  that  the  talk 
preceded  the  actual  event.  They  were  breathing  hard. 
Rinehart  singled  them  out  with  his  snapping  eyes,  one 
after  another,  accusing  them  as  individuals.  Then, 
with  a  wild  sweep  of  his  arm  above  them: 

"  What  fools  we  are,  brothers !  How  long  are  we  going 
to  stand  it?  How  long  are  we  going  to  wait  like  sheep 
until  the  knife  hits  us?  Haven't  we  heard  that  there's  a 
'contemplated  cut?'  What  does  that  mean?  Hah? 
It  means  that  they  sat  down  and  talked  it  over  and  said, 
'Will  they  stand  for  it?'  They're  kind  of  surprised  them- 
selves at  your  easiness,  you  know,  and  they  don't  know 
how  much  farther  they  dare  push  you.  'Sure,'  they 
figure,  'they've  always  stood  for  it  before.  They  don't 


Joey  the  Dreamer  43 

know  any  better,  and  they  can't  help  themselves  if  they 
did.'  And  in  a  few  days  you'll  get  the  word:  'Owing 
to  business  depression  because  of  the  election  —  another 
cut  in  wages.'  And  then  —  then  what  —  are  —  you  — 
going  —  to  —  do?  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

He  stopped  with  a  snap,  clicking  his  thin  lips  together 
like  scissors.  He  looked  around  at  them  again.  In- 
wardly he  smiled;  he  saw  that  he  had  struck  home. 
Outwardly  he  maintained  his  tense,  agonized  expression. 

"You  can't  stand  it  much  longer,"  he  said  in  a  low, 
confidential  tone.  "And  you  won't.  It's  got  to  be  too 
heavy  for  you,  and  you're  going  to  shake  it  off.  The 
time  is  ripe  now;  this  is  the  year  to  do  it  in.  You  can't 
elect  a  President,  but  you  can  make  the  men  who  do 
elect  him  understand  that  you're  Boss.  And  there's 
only  one  way  to  do  it"  —  he  was  back  in  the  old  fierce 
mood  again  —  "only  one  way  to  get  yourself  a  square 
deal  in  this  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  — 
make  the  whole  country  damn  good  and  afraid  of  you! 

"You've  tried  begging.  You've  been  the  sucker  long 
enough.  Now  it's  time  to  turn  things  over.  Nobody 
is  afraid  of  a  fellow  until  they  feel  his  muscle.  Let  them 
see  yours.  Let  them  see  that  you  could  knock  over  all 
these  millionaires  and  big  guns,  and  the  President  himself, 
like  so  many  mud  dolls.  Show  them  that  they're  on 
top  only  because  you  let  them  be,  and  if  you  get  mad 
you  can  dump  'em  over.  Show  them  that  while  they're 
riding  on  your  shoulders  they  mustn't  bear  down  too 
hard  or  you'll  shake  'em  off.  Don't  you  suppose  that 
would  make  a  change  in  the  way  they  treat  you?  Don't 


44  J  Joey  the  Dreamer 

you  suppose  —  if  you  showed  them  that  —  that  they'd 
think  a  long  time  before  voting  themselves  more  profits 
out  of  your  wages?  Well,  I  guess  they  would.  Why, 
you'd  have  them  taking  you  into  consideration  when  they 
made  their  big  moves,  then.  In  other  words,  you  wouldn't 
be  slaves,  which  is  just  what  you  are  now." 

Such  was  the  gentle  little  way  of  Rinehart.  This  was 
his  favourite  ending.  A  stinging  slap  across  the  face  — 
"slaves!"  —  then  he  would  step  down,  the  old  disciple 
would  gather  to  him  the  box,  and  together  they  would 
disappear  behind  the  swinging  doors  of  Mr.  Mehaffey's  or 
Mr.  Sodders's,  leaving  the  crowd  behind  dazed  and 
dumbed  by  the  verbal  explosion.  Rinehart  had  done  it 
so  many  times  that  he  was  shocked  when  he  turned 
and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  man  who  held  up 
a  hand  and  said:  "Stay  on  your  perch  just  a  minute, 
you;  I  want  to  ask  one  question." 

The  man  was  a  giant.  The  tufts  of  hair  in  his  ears 
and  nostrils  were  black  from  the  engine-room.  There 
was  a  steadfast  solemness  on  his  face  as  if  he  hadn't 
smiled  for  years.  With  his  size,  his  bearing,  and  the 
tones  of  his  voice,  he  suggested  some  great  outdoor 
creature  who  had  been  trapped  and  held  prisoner  in  the 
Tenement.  He  was  distinctly  out  of  place.  It  was 
the  man  who  had  brought  silence  to  the  Tenement  hall 
last  Monday  evening. 

"What,"  continued  the  giant,  "what  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it?" 

Rinehart  leaned  forward  eagerly. 

"Come    to    the    meeting    in     the    basement    at    ten 


45 

to-morrow  morning,  Mr.  Perkins,"  he  hissed.  "Come 
with  us.  You'll  learn  that  we  are  going  to  do  something, 
and  you'll  learn  what  it  is.'* 

Perkins  turned  away,  apparently  satisfied.  Rinehart 
got  down  from  his  box,  and  he  and  the  old  disciple  dis- 
appeared. The  crowd  dispersed. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  It  all  was  bewildering  to 
me. 

"The  song  is  stirring  them,"  said  Ruth,  "but  they've 
never  learned  how  to  sing." 

We  turned  toward  the  Tenement.  Although  it  was 
early  evening  when,  at  this  season  of  the  year,  the  world 
normally  is  light  and  pleasant,  the  Court,  being  walled 
in  on  three  sides  by  buildings  and  up  above  by  the  cloud 
of  smoky  haze,  had  grown  so  dark  that  already  lights 
were  showing  in  the  Tenement,  gleaming  behind  greasy 
panes,  like  gas  lamps  in  a  foggy  night.  And  the  babel 
of  Saturday  evening  was  upon  the  place,  for  Saturday 
is  pay-day  in  the  Factory,  and  the  Tenement  had  begun 
to  boil.  Housewives  were  hurrying  to  buy  food  with  the 
newly  arrived  money;  kids  were  hurrying  after  beer. 
One  might  have  laughed,  but  the  wailing  of  a  babe  per- 
sisted in  reaching  the  ear  through  all  the  turmoil. 

"The  Perkins  baby,"  said  Ruth.  "The  doctor  has 
given  it  up." 

An  Early  Drunk  began  to  carol  blithely;  the  Court  was 
livening  up.  But  Ruth  was  right;  it  had  not  learned 
to  sing. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WE  ARE  back  home  in  the  Tenement  at  last,  and 
we  will  follow  Joey  to  his  home;  for  they  were 
waiting  at  home  for  Joey,  waiting  for  him  with 
longing  hearts. 

What  spectacle  so  sure  to  touch  the  heart  and  stir  it 
to  warmer  and  greater  beating  as  that  of  an  anxious 
mother  eagerly  awaiting  the  return  of  her  little  son  from 
his  day's  labours?  What  so  doubly  touching  as  the 
thought  of  the  father,  as  well,  sitting  beside  his  spouse 
as  they  look  at  the  clock,  then  at  each  other,  mutually 
anxious  because  the  little 'son  is  late?  Natural  maternal 
anxiety,  stern  fatherly  solicitude;  truly  the  picture  is  one 
to  arouse  good  feelings  on  the  part  of  all  who  behold. 

And  this  was  the  situation  with  our  little  Joey  on  this 
particular  Saturday  night. 

The  Bruggers  lived  in  two  rooms  and  a  closet  at  the 
end  of  the  second-floor  hall,  and  Mrs.  Bruggers  had  a  way 
of  leaving  the  door  open  while  discussing  the  innermost 
secrets  of  family  life  that  made  it  no  trouble  at  all  to  know 
all  about  the  Bruggers.  Their  joys  and  sorrows  were  an 
open  book,  or,  rather,  an  open  phonograph,  to  all  the 
Tenement.  And  do  not  fancy  that  there  is  no  joy  in 
life  lived  in  two  rooms  and  a  closet  at  the  end  of  a  dark 
hall.  There  is.  It  was  a  treat  not  soon  to  be  forgotten 

46 


Joey  the  Dreamer  47 

to  hear  Mr.  Bruggers  pipe  up  and  sing,  "When  You  And 
I  Were  Young,  Maggie,"  after  the  can  had  made  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  trips  to  the  corner. 

But  there  was  no  joy  in  the  household  to-night. 
In  the  room  which  served  as  kitchen  and  living  room  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bruggers  sat  with  expectant  but  mournful  eyes 
and  ears.  The  table,  containing  what  remained  of  a 
rather  scanty  supper,  was  between  them,  and  they  faced 
the  door.  Bruggers,  his  thin  legs  crossed,  and  elbow  on 
the  table,  leaned  his  little  head  upon  his  hand,  and  gazed 
at  the  entrance  in  pensive,  dreamy  expectation.  He 
was  a  thin,  little  man  all  around,  with  a  high  forehead 
which,  by  virtue  of  almost  complete  baldness,  seemed  to 
run  back  to  his  neck,  and  no  chin.  His  nose  was  red, 
very  red;  his  mouth  was  a  smirk  that  reached  from  one 
side  of  the  thin  face  to  the  other;  while  scattered  ir- 
regularly over  the  lower  part  of  his  countenance  were 
tufts  of  woolly  black  hair  which  Bruggers  flatteringly 
referred  to  as  a  beard. 

Mrs.  Bruggers  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  was  builded 
on  different  lines.  She  was  as  full-bodied  as  Bruggers  was 
thin.  She  filled  her  red  wrapper  to  the  point  of  bursting 
and  even  beyond,  for  beneath  each  of  the  lady's  armpits 
a  sharp  rent  appeared  in  the  seams  through  which  loose 
red  flesh  protruded  in  a  way  distinctly  suggestive  of 
overstuffing.  The  redness  that  was  upon  Bruggers 's 
nose  was  all  over  the  face  of  his  spouse,  a  face  which, 
moreover,  was  more  than  life  size,  whether  through  a 
strange  puffiness  that  marked  it,  or  from  natural  con- 
struction, would  have  been  hard  to  say.  It's  expression 


48  Joey  the  Dreamer 

now,  and  always  when  in  a  normal  condition,  was  that  of 
a  scowl  amounting  to  a  direct  threat;  the  whole  attitude 
of  Mrs.  Bruggers  at  this  moment,  which  was  one  of  bold 
uprightness,  the  hands  on  the  hips,  the  big  head  to  one 
side,  while  the  eyes  watched  the  door  with  something  of 
the  same  expression  of  the  cat  at  the  mouse  hole,  bore 
out  this  impression.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bruggers  were  await- 
ing their  child's  home-coming  on  a  Saturday  night. 

Though  there  was  no  clock  in  the  room,  they  knew 
that  Joey's  regular  time  of  arrival  had  come  and  passed. 
This,  apparently,  was  the  cause  of  their  concentration  in 
waiting.  At  times  Bruggers  cast  a  glance  at  a  little 
shelf  above  the  table.  The  shelf  was  empty.  Bruggers 
smiled  and  resumed  his  watching,  indulging  himself,  as 
was  to  be  seen  by  his  expression,  in  the  joys  of  remi- 
niscence and  anticipation,  in  lieu  of  anything  more 
substantial. 

"Bruggers."  The  voice  came  out  of  the  corner  of 
Mrs.  Bruggers's  mouth,  that  energetic  body  not  deigning 
to  direct  her  gaze  in  the  direction  of  her  speech. 

"Yes,  my  love?"     Bruggers  was  all  attention. 

"What  d'you  s'pose  the  brat's  doing?" 

"I  can't  imagine,  my  dear." 

"Aw,  you  can't  anything." 

"My  dear " 

"Shut  up." 

Bruggers  obeyed,  smiling  indulgently  after  the  manner 
of  masterful  man  humouring  an  irritable  helpmeet. 
Minutes  passed. 

"Bruggers." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  49 

"My  dear." 

"Get  the  can." 

"Why,  my  love?" 

"Get  it.    He's  coming.     He's  here." 

It  was  true.  The  more  vigilant  ears  of  the  woman  had 
detected  Joey's  steps  in  the  hall,  and  at  the  moment  when 
Bruggers  was  arising  to  obey  his  spouse's  command,  the 
boy  opened  the  door  and  entered  his  home. 

Immediately  he  had  crossed  the  threshold,  Joey 
stopped  and  his  bright  eyes  ran  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  two  faces  that  had  awaited  his  coming  with  such 
eagerness.  The  door  he  left  open  behind  him.  This 
was  strategy,  strategy  born  of  much  experience.  But 
there  was  another  strategist  in  that  room,  an  older 
strategist,  a  more  experienced  strategist,  and,  therefore, 
a  more  capable  one.  Bruggers,  divining  the  possible 
purpose  of  the  open  door,  innocently  proceeded  to  carry 
from  the  table  to  the  sink,  as  if  for  the  improbable  purpose 
of  cleansing,  a  large  tin  pail.  The  sink  was  near  the  door. 
Suddenly  Bruggers  moved  with  a  swiftness  that  was 
remarkable  in  one  of  his  apparent  lack  of  energy.  The 
door  slammed  shut.  Joey  turned  around  and  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  Bruggers,  sr.,  who,  with  his 
back  against  the  door,  smiled  shrewdly  down  upon  the 
outwitted  young  strategist. 

"Thought  you  were  going  to  duck  out  and  leave  your 
mother  an'  me  without  your  comp'ny,  Joey?"  queried 
the  father,  lightly. 

"Bruggers!" 

"My  love?" 


50  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Shut  up." 

"Yes,   my " 

"Joey." 

"Yes,  ma." 

"You're  late." 

"I  was  sick." 

"Sick!" 

"Sick!" 

Mrs.  Bruggers  said  it  first.  Her  husband  chimed  in 
to  lend  emphasis  to  her  meaning. 

"Bruggers!    Shut  up.    Keep  shut.    Joey!" 

"Yes,  ma." 

"Who  did  you  come  home  with,  Joey?" 

"Miss  Ruth  and  Mr.  Lord." 

"Ah-ha!"  "Ah-ha!"  As  before,  Mr.  Bruggers  echoed 
his  wife's  exclamation. 

"Swells!"  said  Mrs.  Bruggers.  "  'Sociating  with 
swells  while  me  'n  your  pa  is  sitting  here  suffering." 

"Yes;"  said  Mr.  Bruggers,  solemnly  shaking  his  head 
over  the  enormity  of  such  conduct,  "while  we  was 
suffering." 

"Joey!"  Mrs.  Bruggers  stretched  out  a  huge,  fat  hand, 
palm  up,  and  went  through  the  motion  of  closing  and 
reopening  the  fingers  in  suggestive  fashion. 

"Money,"  said  she,  whereupon  Joey  dutifully  stepped 
forward  and  deposited  his  weekly  earnings  in  the  itching 
palm.  Mrs.  Bruggers  without  a  word  or  change  of 
expression  cautiously  hit  the  half-dollar,  scanned  the 
solitary  bank-note,  and  slapped  both  down  on  the  table 
with  unnecessary  noise  and  vigour.  She  looked  at 


Joey  the  Dreamer  51 

shaking     her     head,     an     attitude     of    deep,    personal 
injury. 

"Two'n  a  half,"  said  she,  mournfully.  "Only  two'n 
a  half.  Oh,  well,  you  can't  expect  much  from  such  kids. " 
She  spoke  to  the  world  at  large  now.  "No,  you  can't 
expect  much.  Now,  if  you  was  strong  and  tough,  Joey, 
like  some  men's  kids,  you  might  be  a  big  help  to  your 
poor  ma.  But,  no;  what  wasn't  to  be  wasn't  to  be. 
Well,  such  is  life  for  a  poor,  lone  woman." 

And  Mrs.  Bruggers  treated  herself  to  the  luxury  of  a 
colossal  sigh  of  self-pity. 
"Bruggers." 
"My   dear?" 

"The  ticket  for  the  clock." 
"But,  my  love;  I  was  going,  wasn't  I?" 
"You  was.     But  you  ain't.    The  ticket." 
"My  love,  it  isn't  necessary  that  you  should  go  chasing 
out  on  these  little  errands.     You  tire  yourself  unnec- 

sarily.     I'll  run  these  errands,  my  love.     I '' 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 
"I  —  I'll  come  back  with  the  change,  my  love." 
"You  won't.     Because  you  won't  get  a  chance.    The 
ticket."     Mrs.  Bruggers  again  stretched  out  her  great 
hand  and  again  made  the  suggestive  movements  with 
her    fingers.     Bruggers    surrendered.     From    an    inside 
vest  pocket  he  drew  a  paper  covered  memorandum  book 
—  a  patent  medicine  advertisement  — •  and  with  a  serious 
expression  he  began  to  search  through  its  leaves.     Brug- 
gers grandiloquently  called  the  book  his  wallet,  and  as- 
sumed a  very  business-like  air  when  handling  it.     From 


52  Joey  the  Dreamer 

a  distance  one  might  have  supposed  that  the  book  con- 
tained a  long  list  of  priceless  memoranda;  on  close 
inspection  it  could  be  seen  to  contain  one  thing — a 
yellow  ticket  from  a  pawn  shop.  This  Bruggers  fumbled 
over  several  times  as  if  searching  vigorously  through  a 
mass  of  material.  At  last  he  drew  it  forth  with  an 
expression  of  relief. 

"Ah,  here  it  is,  my  dear.  Thought  I  never  would 
find  it.  There  you  are,  my  love,  there  you  are." 

Mrs.  Bruggers  took  the  ticket  without  a  word. 

"Bruggers." 

"Yes " 

"The  can." 

Slowly,  reluctantly  Bruggers  surrendered  the  pail  in 
his  hand.  Wistfully  he  eyed  Mrs.  Bruggers  as  she  arose 
and  moved  toward  the  door.  She  had  thrust  the  pawn 
ticket  and  money  into  some  sort  of  a  pocket  above  her 
swelling  bosom,  and  now  she  stopped  and  posed  for  a 
moment  at  the  doorway  in  her  favourite  position,  arms 
akimbo,  head  thrown  back  and  to  one  side,  expression 
vigorously  critical. 

"Joey." 

"Yes,  ma."  Joey  by  this  time  had  climbed  into  the 
chair  vacated  by  his  father  and  was  voraciously  eating 
of  what  remained  of  the  miserable  excuse  for  a  meal. 

"What's  your  friend,  Miss  Ruth,  doing  now?" 

"She's  going  to  have  a  meeting  in  the  Park  to-night," 
said  Joey. 

"Huh!  She'd  better  slip  a-body  a  piece  of  change. 
Well,  remember  this,  young  man:  next  Sat'day  night 


Joey  the  Dreamer  53 

don't  go  running  'round  the  streets.  Nice  son,  you  are. 
Loafing  on  tlis  way  home  while  your  pa  an'  ma  sits  here 
without  a  cent  in  the  house  and  the  clock  in  hock,  and 
the  poor-house  always  staring  us  in  the  face.  That's 
the  thanks  a  body  gets  for  raising  you.  Bruggers!" 

"My   love?" 

"If  you  lay  a  hand  on  'im  while  I'm  out  I'll  kill  you 
when  I  come  back.  Hear  me?" 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Bruggers  humbly;  and  as  the 
door  closed  upon  the  swelling  back  of  his  wife  he  treated 
himself  to  a  huge  and  significant  wink. 

Joey  meanwhile  was  eating  away  with  an  energy  that 
told  plainly  the  reason  for  his  collapse  of  the  evening. 
Bread  and  potatoes  as  the  exclusive  items  of  a  meal  are 
not  things  to  tempt  the  ordinary  appetite,  but  Joey's 
appetite  was  so  far  removed  from  the  ordinary  that  there 
may  be  no  comparison.  In  fact,  his  was  no  mere  appetite, 
it  was  hunger.  He  ate  ferociously,  swallowing  the  poor 
food  whole,  and  a  glass  of  water  from  the  greasy  tap 
served  as  his  drink.  And  all  the  time  his  father  watched 
him  with  a  sinister  touch  to  the  perpetual  smirk  of  his  lips. 

Presently  this  model  parent  approached  his  feasting 
son,  and,  leaning  on  his  knuckles  on  the  table,  bent 
forward  in  an  attitude  of  judicial  examination. 

"Joey,"  he  said.  It  was  his  peculiarity  that  when  the 
mistress  of  the  house  was  absent  he  assumed  as  nearly  as 
might  be  her  tone  and  manner. 

"Yes,   pa." 

"Tell  me,  what  made  you  late?" 

"I  was  sick,"  said  Joey. 


54  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Joey!    Don't  lie  to  me." 

"I  ain't  lying." 

"I  suppose,  Joey,  you  didn't  happen  to  run  an  errand 
after  hours  to-night?"  Mr.  Bruggers  waited  only  until 
Joey  shook  his  head,  and  continued: 

"And  I  suppose  you  didn't  get  a  quarter  for  running 
it,  either,  eh?" 

"I  didn't  run  any,  I  tell  you." 

"No,"  sneered  Mr.  Bruggers,  "and  I  suppose  your 
swell  friend,  Miss  Ruth,  didn't  happen  to  slip  you  a 
piece  of  change  for  good  luck,  either,  did  she?  Nor 
that  Mr.  Lord  didn't  either,  I  suppose.  No,  I  suppose 
not.  But  Joey — Joey,"  Mr.  Bruggers's  voice  tried  to  take 
on  a  tone  of  firmness.  "I  think  we'll  see  for  ourselves 
about  this."  At  this  he  suddenly  leaned  over,  caught 
the  boy  by  the  shoulder  and  jerked  him  violently  away 
from  the  table.  Joey  cried  out  with  the  pain  and 
squirmed  under  the  tight  fingers,  but  Bruggers  held  on. 

"We  will  see  for  ourself,  Joey,"  he  continued  softly, 
tightening  his  grip.  "We  will  see  with  our  own  eyes. 
Not  that  I  doubt  you,  Joey.  Oh,  no.  Who  could  doubt 
such  a  sweet  little  angel  as  you,  who  makes  friends  with 
swells  and  leaves  his  parents  sitting  home  without  a  cent 
in  the  house?  Who  could  doubt  you,  eh,  you  little 
precious?" 

As  his  words  rolled  out  faster  his  fingers  sank  farther 
into  the  boy's  flesh  until  Joey  bent  double  with  pain,  and 
at  last  in  desperation  tore  feebly  at  the  fingers  that  held 
him.  Bruggers  had  been  waiting  for  this. 

"You  filthy  little  ingrate!"  he  cried,  and  knocked  Joey 


Joey  the  Dreamer  55 

down  with  a  blow  on  the  temple.  "  Strike  the  hand  that 
feeds  you,  will  you?  Get  up." 

From  a  man  with  a  man's  strength  such  a  blow  might 
easily  have  been  fatal,  but  from  a  wreck  like  Bruggers 
it  was  only  sufficient  to  knock  the  little  victim  off  his 
feet.  To  be  knocked  down  was  no  novelty  to  Joey  and 
he  fell  with  his  elbows  instinctively  thrust  beneath  him. 
He  was  not  even  stunned.  He  knew  better  than  to  dis- 
obey his  father's  orders,  and  slowly  he  arose,  guard- 
ing another  possible  blow  with  his  arm  crooked  before 
his  face. 

"Come  here." 

Joey  advanced  in  fear  and  trembling. 

"Turn  around,"  commanded  Bruggers,  and  when  Joey 
had  obeyed  he  thrust  two  hands  simultaneously  into  the 
boy's  pockets  with  a  dexterousness  that  warranted  the 
supposition  that  Mr.  Bruggers  had  done  this  sort  of 
thing  several  times  before.  Finding  nothing,  he  vented 
his  disappointment  in  a  blow  in  the  middle  of  Joey's  back 
that  sent  him  reeling  across  the  room  to  the  wall. 

"Now,  go  on  with  your  meal,"  he  commanded,  seating 
himself  at  the  table,  "and  if  you  say  a  word  about  this 
to  anybody  you  know  what  you'll  get." 

Joey  went  back  to  his  bread  and  potatoes  and  water 
in  silence.  He  would  have  loved  to  run  away,  to  dash 
out  of  the  door,  down  the  hall,  into  the  street,  anywhere, 
to  get  away  from  that  room;  but  his  stomach  was  crying 
insistently  for  food. 

"Well!"  said  the  father  lowering  across  at  him  as  he 
sat  down. 


56  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"What,  pa?"  said  Joey. 

"I  said  you  know  what  you'll  get  if  you  say  anything." 

"Yes." 

"Well?" 

"I  won't  say  anything." 

"Huh!  You'd  better  not.  You  fought  me.  Don't 
forget  that,  Joey;  be  sure  that  I  won't." 

He  glowerd  fiercely  at  the  poor  little  figure,  as  if  dar- 
ing him  to  dispute  his  authority  and  power.  He  was 
emphatically  dominant  when  dealing  alone  with  Joey, 
was  Bruggers,  and  he  never  failed  to  make  the  most  of 
it.  He  had  just  caught  the  child's  eye  as  he  stole  a 
glance  across  the  table  and  had  cowed  him  into  abject 
terror  with  his  threatening  mien,  when  the  door  creaked 
and  Mrs.  Bruggers  entered  the  room. 

The  instantaneousness  and  significance  of  the  change 
that  went  over  the  countenance  of  Mr.  Bruggers  at  this 
is  indescribable.  It  seemed  that  he  lost  inches  in  height; 
it  was  as  if  the  sycophantic  fool  had  been  playing  with 
the  mask  of  the  king. 

"My  dear!"  said  Mr.  Bruggers  in  a  tone  that  oozed 
respect,  admiration,  and  affection,  rising  to  his  feet,  and 
beaming  upon  the  overflowing  can. 

"Bruggers." 

"Yes,   my   love." 

"Tut  it  up,"  said  Mrs.  Bruggers,  handing  him  a  little 
metal  clock,  unquestionably  the  most  valuable  piece  of 
furniture  in  the  room. 

"I  shall  hasten,  my  dear,"  said  Bruggers,  responding 
to  the  command  with  alacrity.  The  clock  went  up  on 


Joey  the  Dreamer  57 

the  shelf  above  the  table,  and  Bruggers  jumped  down  from 
the  chair  from  which  he  had  performed  the  opera- 
tion, eagerly  expectant,  his  tongue  moving  between  his 
lips  suggestively. 

Mrs.  Bruggers  walked  to  the  table,  placed  the  can  before 
her,  and  seated  herself  hi  the  chair  opposite  her  child. 
Something  long  and  flat  showed  sharply  beneath  the 
tight  bosom  of  her  wrapper.  Bruggers  licked  his  chops 
more  avidly  as  he  saw  this;  he  knew  a  bottle  even  when 
he  couldn't  see  it,  did  Bruggers. 

"Joey,"  said  Mrs.  Bruggers,,  her  hands  guarding  the 
can. 

"Yes,  ma." 

"Did  he  touch  you?" 

"No,  ma,"  lied  Joey  promptly. 

"Joey  is  such  a  good  little  boy,  who  could  touch 
him?"  purred  the  man. 

"Bruggers.'* 

"My   love?" 

"Here's  luck,"  and  with  this  Mrs.  Bruggers  hid  her 
face  behind  the  can  for  a  length  of  time  that  made  the, 
waiting  Bruggers  grow  alarmed. 

"Clara,  my  love,"  he  said  warmly.  "Not  too  much, 
not  too  much,  all  to  onct." 

Mrs.  Bruggers,  finally  having  slaked  her  thirst,  burst 
into  a  fit  of  yeasty  coughing,  and  smiling  cheerfully, 
handed  over  the  can.  As  Bruggers  repeated  her  per- 
formance she  took  the  bottle  from  her  bosom  and  placed 
it  upon  the  table.  Joey  looked  from  one  to  the  other  as 
they  drank.  They  scarcely  noticed  him.  Presently, 


58  Joey  the  Dreamer 

having  finished  the  food  that  had  been  left  for  him,  he 
arose  and  slipped  noiselessly  from  the  room.  It  was 
Joey's  regular  Saturday  night,  but  to-night  there  was  a 
gleam  of  light  in  the  darkness.  He  had  some  place  to 
go  beside  out  on  the  hot,  stinking  curb.  Miss  Ruth  was 
going  to  have  a  meeting  in  the  Park,  and  he  would  go 
out  and  lie  on  the  grass  and  listen. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MEANWHILE  let  us  remember  that  Delia 
had  weighed  the  meeting  and  the  theatre 
in  the  balance  and  had  decided  in  favour 
of  the  latter. 

"  What,  ho !  yer  leddyship?  The  carriage  waits  without. 
What?  Not  dressed  yet?  Say!  Wish  I  had  so  many 
glad  rags  it  took  me  four  hours  to  get  inside  of  'em.  I'd 
soak  'em  and  hire  a  vally  to  help  me  dress,  I  would 
honest." 

Freddy  sat  outside  the  closed  door  of  Delia's  little 
room  —  Delia  being  an  orphan  who  had  to  keep 
gentlemen  out  of  her  room  —  and  professed  to  grumble 
over  her  tardiness.  He  was  gloriously  attired  for  the 
evening;  the  height  of  his  collar  was  wonderful  to  behold; 
the  crease  in  his  striped  trousers  was  metallic;  his  tie 
was  fearsomely  red;  and  he  smelled  abundantly  of  the 
barber  shop. 

Inside  the  room  Delia,  before  a  mirrored  wash  stand, 
was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  her  Saturday  evening 
metamorphosis  with  loving  hands,  for  she  loved  to  be 
prettily  dressed,  did  Delia.  Her  idea  of  a  paradise  would 
have  been  a  place  where  one  was  dressed  up  seven  days 
out  of  the  week. 

All  over  the  Tenement  this  same  Saturday  evening 
59 


60 

transformation  was  going  on  to  a  certain  degree.  Satur- 
day night  of  all  nights  in  the  week  is  the  night  to  see  the 
Tenement.  Then  it  lives.  The  sense  of  temporary 
release  from  labour  is  in  the  air.  The  Tenement's 
dwellers  become  individuals.  Through  the  week  they 
are  cowed  members  of  a  class.  Now  the  natural  being 
asserts  itself.  The  place  of  labour  is  left  behind,  the 
grip  of  toil  for  awhile  shaken  off,  and  the  fear  of  late 
rising  on  the  morrow  has  vanished.  A  man  relieved 
from  strain  stretches  himself,  rubs  his  arms,  perhaps 
yawns  a  little.  The  Tenement  on  a  Saturday  night 
suddenly  finds  itself  unshackled  and  proceeds  in  its 
own  sweet  way  to  demonstrate  its  appreciation  of 
the  blessed  state  of  freedom.  Other  week  nights  it  is 
mainly  a  place  to  eat  and  sleep  in,  preparatory 
for  next  morning's  early  rising.  But  on  Saturday  — 
Saturday  night  —  the  Tenement  flares  into  rosy,  dawn- 
ing life. 

The  change  from  a  scene  of  sobriety  and  labour  is 
prompt  and  sudden.  With  the  coming  of  darkness  the 
workers  return  home.  Some,  fortunate  dogs  that  they 
are,  have  ceased  work  at  one,  and  the  manner  in  which 
the  afternoon  has  been  spent  adds  to  the  noise  if  not  the 
life  of  the  evening  scene.  But  the  manner  of  all  in  arriv- 
ing betokens  that  a  different  purpose  actuates  them 
than  prevails  on  other  nights.  It  is  not  to  get  home 
for  a  rest  between  days;  it  is  to  get  ready  for  joy, 
and  the  manner  of  preparation  is  as  varied  as  the 
enjoyment  itself. 

By  seven  the  Tenement  has  received  the  full  quota 


Joey  the  Dreamer  61 

of  its  working  brood.  By  seven-thirty  it  has  seen  them 
prepared,  and  at  eight  they  are  in  full  pursuit  of  the 
enjoyment  for  which  this  night  exists. 

The  girls,  of  course,  are  best  of  all.  Drab  little  fe- 
males, tired  and  dusty  from  the  work  place,  they  come 
tripping  up  the  stairs  with  a  step  that  belongs  to  Saturday 
night  and  to  Saturday  night  alone.  They  are  unpleasing 
little  spectacles  to  the  eye  then,  dressed  for  utility  alone, 
with  a  minimum  regard  for  ornament  or  attraction. 
Within  the  space  of  that  hour,  between  seven  and  eight, 
they  trip  down  those  stairs,  altered  even  as  is  the  dull 
slug  emerging  radiantly  into  the  gaudy  butterfly.  Their 
dress  is  changed  from  head  to  toe  —  if  they  are  so  fortu- 
nate to  possess  a  complete  change.  If  not,  ribbons  and 
other  things  beyond  masculine  knowledge  are  distributed 
about  the  person  with  so  broad  and  free  a  hand  as  to 
create  the  same  impression,  and  amid  the  dark,  dis- 
coloured halls  and  walls  of  the  tenements  their  bright 
colours  and  their  crisp  newness  stand  out  with  an  effect 
of  butterflies  upon  a  prison  wall.  It  is  the  fairy,  Joy, 
emerging  from  creation  in  the  Palace  of  Rats.  She  is  a 
slangy,  flippant  fairy,  and  she  chews  gum,  yet  she  rises 
and  soars  from  her  environment  on  this  one  occasion. 
She  is  gay,  she  is  clean,  she  is  merry.  The  Tenement 
is  dark,  murky,  and  without  hope.  She  is  in  colours  — 
red,  pink,  green,  white  —  what  not.  The  tight  ribbon 
around  her  neck  is  an  offering  to  the  spirit  of  carnival; 
the  fluffy  little  curl  of  her  hair  flaunts  defiance  to  all 
that  is  harsh  and  cumbering  in  this  life.  She  is  dressed 
up,  and  is  going  to  dance,  theatre,  or  wherever  her 


62  Joey  the  Dreamer 

mite  of  pleasure  has  been  made  possible,  is  our  meta- 
morphosed little  woman  of  the  Tenement;  and  in 
none  of  them  was  the  change  so  complete,  so  start- 
ling, as  in  our  own  frivolous  little  Delia.  And  with 
none  did  the  change  require  so  much  time.  Where- 
fore Freddy  must  cool  his  patent-leather  heels  in  the 
adjoining  room  while  Delia  completed  her  toilet  behind 
a  locked  door. 

A  muffled  snicker  came  through  the  key-hole  in  re- 
sponse to  the  young  man's  last  words.. 

"That  a  joke?"  asked  Delia  with  hairpins  in  her 
mouth. 

"What?  That?  No,  that  ain't  no  joke.  That's 
what  we  call  light  raypurtea  in  society." 

"Hah!     Fat  lot  you  know  'bout  society!" 

"Who?  Me?  Well,  I  guess  yes.  Scrapped  a  coach- 
man once." 

"Bet  he  licked  you." 

"Not  so  you  could  notice.  But  that  ain't  got  nothin' 
to  do  with  our  gettin'  late  to  the  show." 

"Don't  wait  if  you  don't  want."  Delia  evidently  had 
removed  the  hairpins  from  her  mouth.  She  now  spoke 
in  her  normal  tones. 

"What?" 

"Don't  wait  if  you're  getting  tired." 

"Say.  That's  too  raw  a  slam."  Freddy  sat  up. 
"You  know  I  was  only  kidding." 

"Did  I?"     Quick  and  sharp. 

"Sure.  An'  you  know  I'd  wait  for  you  until  the  show 
was  done  an'  over  with  if  you  said  so." 


63 

"Would  you?" 

"Don't  you  know  I  would?"  He  rose  to  his  feet  and 
lowered  at  the  door  which  separated  them.  "Haven't 
you  got  to  know  that  by  this  time?" 

"How  can  I  know?" 

"How  can  you  help  knowing?  Hain't  you  got  eyes? 
Can't  you  see?" 

"See  what?" 

"  See  —  see  that  —  aw,  coine  on,  Dell,  you  know 
what  I  mean.  You  know  you  do." 

"Don't,  either." 

"  Why  —  well,  haven't  I  showed  you  by  the  way  I 
come  here  —  "  Freddy  stopped  abruptly.  He  was  at  a 
loss  for  what  to  say.  This  thing  had  come  on  rather  too 
quickly  to  find  him  prepared,  though,  had  he  known  it, 
Delia  was  secretly  rejoicing  over  the  way  in  which  she  had 
drawn  him  out.  He  sat  regarding  the  door  with  a  look 
of  deep  disappointment,  his  brows  puckered  tightly, 
after  the  manner  of  a  man  struggling  with  a  hard 
problem.  At  last  he  had  it. 

"If  I  haven't  showed  that  I  want  to  go  with  you,"  he 
blurted,  "how  is  a  guy  going  to  show  it,  that's  all  I 
want  to  know." 

"Is  it?" 

"Don't  you  believe  me?" 

"Oh,  sure  —  like  a  clam." 

"Cut  that  out,  Delia,"  said  Freddy  gravely.  "I 
ain't  kidding  —  not  a  kid." 

It  was  out  now.  Freddy  sat  down,  tugging  fiercely  at 
his  tight,  creased  trousers.  In  the  other  room  Delia  was 


64  Joey  the  Dreamer 

silent.  Her  hat  was  on,  and  she  was  ready  to  go,  but  she 
waited  a  moment  that  she  might  compose  herself  and 
present  a  calm,  disinterested  exterior  upon  her  appearance. 
There  are  advantages  hi  a  closed  door  under  certain 
circumstances.  She  made  no  retort  to  Freddy's  last 
statement. 

"Well,"  she  said,  presently,  rattling  a  comb  on  the 
stand  as  if  in  a  great  hurry.  "I  guess  that'll  do,  since 
you're  getting  nervous."  She  came  flouncing  out  with 
unnecessary  energy.  "Come  on,  now.  S'pose  you're 
pretty  tired,  eh?  Gee,  I  wish  we  was  there.  How  do 
I  look,  eh?" 

Freddy  rose  and  stood  staring  at  her,  nonplussed  by 
the  change  that  the  hour  had  wrought.  Never,  perhaps, 
had  Delia  been  so  successful  in  her  weekly  metamor- 
phosis. No  trace  of  the  factory  in  this  young  woman. 
No  sign  that  she  worked  for  her  living.  For  the  time 
being  she  was  a  thing  made  for  pleasure,  a  pretty,  hectic 
little  flower,  as  attractive  as  a  pansy,  as  care-free  as  a 
daisy  in  a  dell.  The  paleness  was  gone  from  her  face; 
but  the  rouge  was  scarcely  visible.  Her  light  hair  dropped 
over  her  forehead  in  tiny,  coquettish  curls,  and  her 
china-blue  eyes  glistened,  while  the  mouth,  well  —  the 
mouth  was  red  and  full,  like  a  poppy,  as  if  it  had  drawn 
on  the  rest  of  the  little  face  for  its  life  and  warmth.  The 
spirit  of  light-heartedness  and  joy  romped  in  her  being, 
and  Freddy,  as  he  stared,  more  than  half  expected  to 
hear  her  burst  out  into  joyous  song.  It  would  have 
seemed  the  natural  thing  for  her  to  do,  so  seething  was 
she  with  the  spirit  of  jubilation. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  65 

"Dell,"  he  blurted,  "even  if  I  do  say  it  myself  you've 
certainly  got  'em  all  skinned  when  you  doll  up." 

"Yah!"  laughed  the  girl  in  his  face.  "Soft  soap 
Freddy,'  eh?  Come  on,  let's  duck.  I'm  crazy  to  get 
down  by  the  lights,  and  the  crowds,  where  there's  some- 
thing to  see,  and  some  one  to  see  you,  and  everything 
is  fine  and  lovely.  Hah!"  i 

"Sure,"  agreed  Freddy,  following  dumbly.  He  was 
stricken  hard.  He  had  pictured  her  so  in  his  dreams, 
and  here  the  dream  stood  before  him  in  the  flesh.  Per- 
haps Delia  never  had  thought  of  it  that  way.  Perhaps 
not !  Innocent,  unsophisticated,  serpent- wise  little  Delia ! 

"Say,"  he  repeated  blunderingly.  "You  certainly 
are  rich!" 

"Go  on!"  She  struck  at  him  playfully  and  he  caught 
the  soft  arm  in  his  long,  strong  fingers.  He  drew  her 
toward  him  and  turned  her  around  so  she  must  look  up 
at  him.  The  magic  of  the  flesh-touch  flew  through  them 
like  a  new  flame. 

"Delia,"  he  murmured  hoarsely. 

"Yes."     Delia,  too,  was  breathing  hard. 

"You  know  this  ain't  no  kidding  game  for  me,  don't 
you?" 

"Sure,  I  know,  Freddy,"  she  whispered,  after  a 
moment's  scrutiny  of  his  face.  "Sure,  I  know."  She, 
too,  was  serious  for  the  moment.  It  was  a  big  moment. 
Then  the  babbling  frivolity  of  her  soul  leapt  back  to 
its  own. 

"Come on;  come  on!"  she  cried,  leaping  away.  "We're 
late.  Come  on;  let's  beat  it." 


66  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Out^ol  the  dark  hallway  she  sprang  and  whirling  on 
the  walk 'filled  her  lungs  to  their  limit  with  air,  as  a  bird 
freed  from  a  dark  cage  gulps  in  its  freedom  before  it  begins 
to  trill.  The  Saturday-night  life  of  the  Court  roared 
around  them,  a  medley  of  peddlers,  gasolene,  and 
smells. 

"Gee!"  sighed  Delia,  ecstatically.  "Ain't  it  a  grand 
night!"  She  took  his  arm  vigorously.  She  hung  on  to 
him  as  they  stepped  along,  and  she  began  to  sing  some 
words  that  she  had  heard  Freddy  hum,  and  which  he 
had  said  belonged  to  some  old  song,  he  couldn't  remember 
what.  The  thing  probably  had  come  out  of  Freddy's 
own  head : 

**Who  are  you  waiting  for,  Kitty,  Kid? 

(No  one  knows.) 
Why  do  you  turn  when  I  tip  my  lid? 

(No  one  knows.) 

Standing  alone  in  the  hall  so  swell, 
Togged  to  the  ears  like  a  dawl. 

Oh,  I  know  that  you're  'waiting  the  guy  you  ain't  hating, 
I  hope  that  he's  treating  you  well." 

She  did  a  little  dance  step  out  of  sheer  exuberance, 
and  then : 

"Hey!  You  little  divils!  Can't  you  see  where  you're 
going?" 

A  circle  of  little  tots  in  play  had  swung  against 
them,  and  Delia  smacked  them  away  from  her  im- 
maculate skirts  right  merrily.  Then,  from  a  window 
above: 


Joey  the  Dreamer  67 

"Here,  you!  Leave  that  kid  alone."  A  vigilant 
mother  was  guarding  her  young.  "Just  because  you 
got  somebody  buying  you  clothes " 

"Oh,  you  horrid  thing!"  giggled  Delia.  "Show's 
where  your  mind  is  at. 

"Who  are  you  waiting  for  Kitty,  Kid? 

(No  one  knows.) 
Why  do  you  turn  when  I  tip  my  lid " 

"Peg  a  brick  at  'em,  Larry,"  called  the  mother  to  the 
object  of  her  solicitude. 

-  "(Wo  one  knows.') — Oh,  there's  a  car,  Freddy!" 

"Soak   'em,   Larry!" 

"Come  on,  Freddy."  And  before  Larry  could  find 
the  desired  brick,  Delia  and  Freddy  were  running  for 
the  Avenue,  the  vituperation  of  the  enraged  woman 
following  them  in  an  unheard  stream. 

At  the  corner  Delia  pulled  up  abruptly. 

"There  isn't  any  car,"  said  Freddy. 

"   'Course  not." 

"Then  what  did  you  sprint  for?" 

"To  get  out  of  the  dump.  To  blow  off  steam.  Gee!" 
She  faced  him  laughing,  and  pressing  her  elbows  tightly 
to  her  sides,  her  hands  hanging  limply  before  her,  she 
broke  into  a  pivoting  dance  step,  her  feet  as  light  as  the 
wind,  her  fluffy  skirts  rising  and  falling,  a  picture  that 
never,  never  had  any  business  inside  a  factory. 

"Standing  alone  in  the  hall  so  swell, 
Togged  to  the  ears  like  a  dawl " 


68  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"  Oh,  Freddy,  Freddy,  I  feel  too  good  to  be  true. 
Let's  walk  down  a  block 

"  'Oh,  I  know  that  you're  'waiting,  the  guy  you  ain't  hating, 
I  hope  that  he's  treating  you  well.'  ' 

"You  are  feeling  flossy,  ain't  you?" 

"Oh,  like  a  boid,  like  a  boid.  Whew!  Don't  it  feel 
good  to  get  out  of  the  dump?  Hah?  Don't  it  feel  like 
busting  out  of  jail? — Oh,  jiminy! —  I  felt  like  lamming 
Mrs.  Lavin,  though.  Nasty  thing!  If  she'd  wash  her 
kids'  noses  once  in  awhile  she  wouldn't  have  so  much 
time  to  talk  'bout  her  neighbours.  I  know  all  about  her. 
No  better'n  she  ought  to  be.  'Me  dear,  dead  husband, 
Mister  Lavin.'  Husband!  In  her  eye!  Husband!" 
Delia  stopped  with  a  significant  sniff. 

"Well,  anyhow,  yer  leddyship,  you  handed  the  kid  a 
slap  on  the  ear,  so  you  needn't  care,"  said  Freddy. 

"Ain't  it  the  truth!  Who'd  care  for  the  likes  of  her  on 
the  likes  of  a  night  like  this?" 

"Who,  indeed,  yer  leddyship?" 

"You  only  lower  yourself  by  talking  to  them." 

"Sure,  yer  leddyship." 

They  went  on  gaily,  talking  merely  to  ease  their  over- 
flowing hearts.  They  met  and  greeted  in  passing  a 
police  officer  lumbering  heavily  up  Avenue. 

"H'llo,  kids,"  said  he. 

"Kids,  yer  eye,"  called  back  Delia.  "Can't  yuh  tell 
a  lady'n  a  gentleman  when  you  see  'em?" 

"Sure,"  laughed  the  officer  without  turning.  "Show 
'em  to  me." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  69 

"Ooh,  poo-ey!"  said  Delia.     "Ain't  he  the  mean  one!" 
"They  wouldn't  be  none  of    yer  kin,  old  bull!"  cried 
Freddy   pleasantly.     "Don't   stop   tuh   chew   the   rag, 
Dell.     We  got  no  time." 

They  had  walked  a  block.  At  the  corner  a  cable  car 
overtook  them,  a  car  crowded  to  the  doors  with  a  crowd 
made  up  of  other  Delias  and  Freddys  likewise  bent 
upon  the  radiant  Saturday  evening  chase  of  lamp-fed 
Joy.  But  Delia  outshone  her  sisters  as  the  born  artist 
outshines  the  crude  beginner.  Her  dress  was  dainty 
where  the  others  were  loud.  Her  ribbons  hinted  at  the 
possibility  of  colours,  the  others  flared  blood-red  and 
grassy  green.  And  her  little  nose  was  not  tilted  pug- 
naciously upward,  as  the  others,  whose  expression  plainly 
bespoke  that  good  old  West  Side  sentiment,  "A  perfect 
lady,  and  I'll  scrap  to  prove  it."  Delia's  whole  bearing, 
her  attire  and  her  expression,  precluded  the  possibility 
of  needing  to  furnish  such  proof;  and  her  sisters  looked 
and  hated  her,  with  the  primitive  hate  of  woman  out- 
shone by  her  kind. 

"Like  tuh  know  how  she  pays  for  the  togs?'* 
"Don't  work  in  a  laundry,  I  can  tell  yuh  that." 
From  a  corner  had  come  the  loudly  whispered  in- 
sinuation, and  like  a  flash  came  Delia's  snapping  rejoinder. 
The  first  speaker  hid  her  telltale  red  hands. 
"Sam,"  said    she,  casually  to  her  escort,  "why  ain't 
yuh  careful  'bout  th'  comp'ny  yuh  make  me  meet?" 
"Gowan,"  sneered  Delia,  "you  wash  my  clothes." 
"Sam,"  continued  the  laundress,  paying  no  attention, 
"can't  yuh  pertect  a  lady  when  she's  in  yer  comp'ny." 


70  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Freddy,  one  arm  around  Delia's  waist,  the  other 
stretched  up  to  a  strap,  sniggered  delicately. 

"Yes,  Sam,"  said  he,  "can't  you  pertect  a  lady  when 
she's  in  yer  comp'ny?" 

Sam,  a  stocky  young  man  of  Semitic  stock,  turned 
with  threatening  mien. 

"What've  you  got  to  do  with  this?"  he  demanded, 
eying  Freddy  up  and  down. 

"Or  didn't  yuh  ever  have  a  lady  in  yer  comp'ny?" 
continued  Freddy  sweetly. 

"Oh!"  said  the  laundress,  bringing  her  red  hands  back 
in  sight.  "D'you  hear  that?" 

"  'Course  if  you  never  did,  Sammy,"  said  Freddy, 
"yuh  can't  know  how." 

"Getting  pretty  fresh,  ain't  yuh?"  growled  Sammy. 

"And  if  you  don't  know  how,  Sam,  you're  to  be  'xcused, 
sure." 

'Spose  you  run  a  night  school  of  how  to  behave, 
don't  you?" 

"Sure.  Couldn't  wise  you  up  any,  though;  I  can  see 
that  from  here." 

"You're  a  wise  guy.     You  certainly  couldn't." 

"Of  course  not.  You're  the  candy  boy,  all  right, 
Sammy.  I  bet  you're  the  kid  that  put  the  salt  in  the 
ocean."  Freddy  grinned  self  appreciatively.  There  is 
this  thing  certain  about  Clay  Court;  it  does  appreciate  its 
own  jokes.  "Sammy,  what  was  your  name  before  you 
were  vaccinated?" 

Delia  was  snuggling  against  Freddy's  wiry  arm  in 
great  comfort.  The  adroitness  with  which  he  had  so 


Joey  the  Dreamer  71 

quietly  taken  the  fuss  upon  himself  excited  her  admiration 
and  as  she  watched  the  faces  of  the  opposing  couple 
grow  purple  under  his  care-free  repartee,  she  covered 
her  mouth  in  glee,  and  dug  an  elbow  in  Freddy's  ribs 
to  indicate  her  approval.  He  was  a  man,  her  Freddy. 
In  that  moment  the  deep,  secret  pride  of  a  woman  in  the 
possession  of  a  large,  capable  male  sprang  quick  in 
Delia's  heart,  and  she  nudged  Freddy  again  in  an 
excess  of  feeling. 

Said  Sam:  "In  about  two  minutes  you'll  get  a  sur- 
prise, if  you  don't  shut  up." 

"If  I  thought  there  was  any  chance  yer  ever  getting 
into  a  lady's  comp'ny " 

"Gawd!"  said  the  laundress. 

"  I'd  advise  you  to  go  out  an'  get  some  practice, 
Sam " 

Suddenly  Sam  made  as  if  to  move  forward  valiantly. 

"Don't  you  hit  me,  Sammy;  remind  me  of  my  old 
mother  kissing  me  and  make  me  cry." 

"I  wouldn't  have  no  row  with  you,"  said  Sam  con- 
temptuously. Then  Delia's  mirth  broke  out  like  a 
little  bubbling  fountain  defying  all  bounds  and  control. 

"Good  as  a  show!"  she  murmured  amongst  the 
laughs. 

"Oh,  Freddy!     You  certainly  did  fix  his  clock." 

"  Who?     Me?     I  only  told  him  the  truth,  didn't  I? " 

"Sure.  But  it  was  as  good  as  a  lie  —  oh,  say! 
Here!" 

She  pulled  his  arm  and  motioned  for  the  conductor  at 
the  same  time.  She  sprang  for  the  door,  and  was  in  the 


72  Joey  the  Dreamer 

street,  dancing  toward  the  walk,  before  Freddy  had  fairly 
got  started. 

"What's  the  rush,  yer  leddyship?"  he  asked  when  he 
caught  her. 

"Rush  'nough,"  laughed  Delia.     "  We're  here." 

The  lights  of  theatredom  blazed  around  them,  filling 
the  thick  hot  night  with  a  fat  yellow  glow.  Two  play- 
houses facing  each  other  made  the  street  a  caldron  of 
electric  lights.  Into  the  flashiest  they  hurried,  and 
near  the  box  office  a  short,  shiny  man,  heavy  in  every 
feature  from  feet  to  lips,  caught  Freddy  by  the  arm  and 
drew  him  to  one  side  as  if  he  had  been  waiting  for  him. 
Delia  looked  the  man  over,  carelessly  at  first,  then  with 
considerable  interest.  He  was  a  very  impressive  and 
elegant  man  to  Delia.  She  saw  that  he  must  be  one  of 
the  powerful  ones  of  the  earth,  a  rich  gentleman.  His 
clothes  were  so  swell  and  new,  the  diamond  rings  on  his 
finger  so  obvious,  the  stud  in  his  shirt  so  blinding.  He 
looked  at  Delia  with  leaden  eyes,  looked  again,  and 
grew  interested. 

"Who's  'at?"  demanded  Delia  looking  back  over  her 
shoulder  when  Freddy  returned  to  her.  She  started,  for 
the  impressive  man  was  following  her  with  brightened 
eyes,  and  when  he  saw  her  turn  he  smiled. 

"That,  yer  leddyship,  is  the  key  to  the  awful  secret. 
Mr.  Binger,  that's  who  it  is;  J.  Q.  A.  Binger,  half  owner 
of  Electric  Park,  a  big  gun  in  the  show  business*  the  uy 
who  give  me  the  passes." 

"What's  he  got  to  do  with  you?" 

"  Why  —  take  it  easy  now  —  he's  got  everything  to  do, 


Joey  the  Dreamer  73 

yer  leddyship.  He's  going  to  gimme  a  chance  on  the 
programme  at  the  park  a  week  from  this  eve'  —  a  real, 
real  chance  to  make  good  —  and  to-night  he's  going  to 
blow  me  and  you  off  to  a  swell  feed  after  the  show." 

Delia  looked  up  at  the  honest,  freckled  face  above  her, 
looked  long  and  carefully  and  saw  that  Freddy  was  tell- 
ing the  positive,  solemn  truth. 

So  she  said :  "  Gowan !    What  d'you  want  to  lie  for?  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT  ABOUT  this  same  time,  while  Freddy  and 
Delia  were  hurrying  for  hot  red-plush  seats  to 
bask  in  the  joys  of  summer  vaudeville,  Ruth 
and  I  were  walking  from  the  Tenement  up  the  Avenue 
toward  the  Park,  with  a  straggling  party  of  the  Tene- 
ment's women  and  children,  including  little  Joey, 
following  half  a  square  behind. 

Rinehart  was  talking  again  at  the  corner.  Never  was 
there  a  man  so  cursed  with  the  Curse  of  Gab.  The  crowd 
was  gathering  around  him.  He  had  to  shriek  to  make 
himself  heard  in  the  Saturday  night  babel,  but  shrieking 
was  what  Rinehart  loved,  and  what  his  hearers  applauded. 
He  laughed  when  we  passed,  and  most  of  his  hearers 
laughed  with  him,  and  one  of  them,  the  little  old  man  who 
had  charge  of  the  box,  quitted  the  group  and  slouched 
sullenly  along  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Neither 
Ruth  nor  I  noticed,  but  the  little  man  paused  at  times 
and  nodded  at  us  and  threw  his  head  up  and  laughed  as 
if  he  knew  a  good  joke  and  was  going  to  play  it. 

Ah!  that  little,  smudged-up  Park  that  dotted  like  a 
green  comma  the  long,  hopeless  line  of  the  Avenue! 
One  must  have  sweltered  in  a  tenement's  windowless 
room  to  know  what  that  little  spot  meant  to  us  in 
the  days  when  the  heat  turned  the  buildings  into 

74 


Joey  the  Dreamer  75 

ovens  wherein  one  might  sit,  and  stew,  and  sweat,  and 
go  mad. 

It  was  only  a  little  breathing  space,  at  the  edge  of  the 
congested  district,  but  it  was  Clay  Court's  one  ray  of 
hope.  It  was  living  testimony  that  there  were  pleasant 
things  in  the  world,  fresh  air,  green  grass,  bubbling  waters, 
and  freedom.  The  air  had  a  taint  of  soft  coal  smoke,  it 
is  true,  the  grass  was  trodden  till  it  was  greasy,  and  the 
waters  bubbled  out  of  a  concrete  goose  fountain,  but,  oh ! 
it  was  good  to  go  there  at  the  end  of  the  day  and  throw 
the  bone-weary  body  on  the  ground  and  rest,  rest,  rest! 
It  was  a  little  taste  of  the  Promised  Land. 

Here,  on  the  hot  summer  nights,  the  sweltering 
brick  boxes  poured  out  their  load  of  trapped 
humanity;  and  talk  and  tobacco,  love  and  laughter 
filled  the  air  like  a  cloud.  Here  also  those  stricken 
with  the  curse  of  the  prophet  rose  up  on  boxes,  chairs, 
and  benches  at  strategic  points  and  filled  the  air  with 
gestures  and  words,  begging  the  race  to  cease  in  its  head- 
long rush  to  destruction,  no  matter  what  the  particular 
route.  At  one  corner  the  lights  shone  upon  the  venerable 
head  of  a  loose-limbed  patriarch  who  quaveringly  sounded 
a  call  to  turn  from  the  delights  of  the  flesh  to  the  simple 
existence.  "Since  the  earliest  dawn  of  human  hist'ry 
to  the  present  ere-a,  man  has  worshipped  blindly  the 
golden  hand  of  the  fatted  calf.  Wine,  women,  and 
money  is  what  he's  wanted,  and  that's  why  he's  been 
unhappy.  He  deserted  his  natur'l  life  for  the  worship 
of  Baal  —  in  other  words  wine,  women,  and  money  —  an* 
he  won't  never  be  happy  until  he  cuts  'em  out." 


76  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Nearby  on  a  bench  a  hollow-chested  young  man, 
watery  eyes  hidden  behind  thick  glasses,  lectured 
didactically  upon  that  marvellous  problem:  "Equal 
Division  of  Wealth."  Half  contemptuously,  interested 
not  at  all  in  his  audience,  striving  not  in  the  least  for  an 
impression,  he  reeled  off  statistics,  history,  and  quotations 
like  a  bloodless  automaton,  driven  only  by  the  desire  to 
mouth  the  erudition  to  win  which  the  eyes  had  grown  so 
watery.  Farther  on,  near  a  corner,  a  workingman,  a 
lather,  he  announced,  with  a  limp-covered  Bible  in  his 
hands,  condemned  his  hearers  to  the  stern  old  hell  of 
liquid  fire  and  brimstone  —  "that  burns  ye  and  burns  ye 
through  all  eternity" — unless  they  came  forward  and 
were  saved  then  and  there. 

But  mostly  there  were  tired,  sweaty  mothers,  who  lay 
prone  on  the  grass  with  half-naked  children  playing 
around  them;  tired  men,  who  made  the  air  pungent  with 
smoke  and  spoke  heavily  at  times  and  in  monosyllables; 
kids,  who  romped  incessantly  and  noisily,  and  the  "young 
people,"  who,  being  at  an  age  to  be  interested  in  one 
Great  Problem  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  ogled  one 
another  as  they  passed,  walked  arm  around  waist,  or 
sought  the  most  secluded  benches  according  to  their 
natures  and  the  length  of  their  acquaintance.  A  police 
officer  paraded  ponderously  among  them  all,  a  heavy  man 
with  menacing  tread,  who,  as  shepherd  of  this  strange 
flock,  had  one  motto:  "Pet  the  kids  and  soak  the  big 
ones,"  and  who,  following  this  principle,  ruled  with  such 
success  that  Eternal  Damnation,  Equal  Division  of 
Wealth,  and  Simple  Life  held  forth  within  shouting 


Joey  the  Dreamer  77 

distance  night  after  night  and  never  came  to  blows. 
And  the  peace  of  trees  and  grass  and  open  space  was  upon 
it  all,  and  for  the  nonce  wild  eyes  grew  sane,  and  weary, 
distorted  mouths  straightened  and  were  at  peace.  Small 
parks  are  more  than  the  lungs  of  the  city;  they  give  the 
street-bred  a  little  chance  to  get  near  to  God. 

Ruth  and  her  following  came  into  the  park  by  one  of 
the  paths  that  led  to  the  little  fountain  in  the  centre. 
Here,  under  a  pair  of  sputtering  lamps,  there  was  an  open 
space  of  grass  with  a  small,  make-believe  knoll  at  one  end, 
and  it  was  toward  this  that  Ruth  bent  her  steps.  Part 
of  her  audience  was  on  the  scene,  comfortably  squatting 
on  the  grass,  and  the  rest  gathered  quickly  at  her  appear- 
ance so  when  Ruth  stepped  up  on  the  knoll  and  faced  her 
following  she  found  herself  the  cynosure  of  a  goodly 
number  of  eyes  ranged  before  her  in  a  crude  semicircle. 

The  women  and  children  were  to  the  fore.  It  was  to 
these  that  Ruth  meant  the  most.  The  men  slouched  in 
the  rear.  They  knocked  their  pipes  out  in  respect  of 
her,  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  they  were  drawn  mainly  by 
the  fact  that  here  was  a  pretty,  neatly  Qicssed  young 
woman  to  look  at.  For  she  was  that,  and  more  than  that. 
I  sat  back  on  a  bench  and  caught  my  breath  as  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  how  beautiful  she  was.  And  a  little 
child,  tumbling  up  from  his  mother's  arms  at  the  sight 
of  her,  tottered  forward  and  went  to  sleep  with  his  head 
resting  against  her  toes. 

Ruth  folded  her  hands  before  her,  and  the  murmuring 
noises  of  the  crowd,  which  are  a  part  of  its  being  as  the 
murmur  of  waves  is  a  part  of  the  sea,  died  down,  and  it 


78  Joey  the  Dreamer 

grew  still.  She  was  smiling  a  little,  and  it  was  only  in  the 
gleam  of  her  eyes  that  one  might  have  seen  the  fervour 
and  zeal  that  burned  within.  After  she  had  spoken 
awhile,  this  quality  seemed  gradually  to  communicate 
itself  to  the  rest  of  her  features,  and  even  to  the  body 
itself,  until  at  last,  in  the  flood  of  her  pleading,  she  became 
a  mere  medium  of  expression,  her  whole  being  caught  and 
consumed  in  the  delivery  of  her  message.  Before  begin- 
ning, her  eyes  seemed  to  search  out  each  individual  in  the 
crowd  and  signal  that  her  words  were  meant  directly  for 
him,  and  then  in  her  low,  clear  voice  she  spoke: 

"Dear  Brothers  and  Sisters:  I  am  going  to  speak  a  few 
words  to  you  to-night,  and  try  to  give  you  a  message 
that  lies  so  close  to  my  heart  that  I  cannot  help  but  try 
to  pass  it  on.  It  is  a  very  old  message,  and  yet  one  that 
is  always  new.  It  is  the  message  of  Jesus  Christ:  Love 
one  another." 

She  paused,  and  a  faint  expression  of  surprise,  tinged 
here  and  there,  perhaps,  by  a  flicker  of  disappointment, 
was  apparent  upon  some  of  the  faces  before  her;  surprise 
because  of  her  last  words,  disappointment  because  it  was 
not  going  to  be  something  sensational. 

"It  may  seem  strange  to  say  that  here  to  you,  and  just 
at  this  time  when  our  troubles  seem  heaviest  and  the 
idea  of  loving  one  another  seems  farther  away  than  ever, 
but  just  now,  dear  friends,  is  the  time  when  we  most  need 
to  speak  of  it,  and  think  of  it,  and  take  it  into  our  hearts." 

Her  voice,  low  and  throbbing,  had  in  it  something  of 
the  blessed  peace  of  the  open  space,  of  the  grass,  the 
trees,  the  quiet  air,  and  the  stars  above,  and  these  weary 


Joey  the  Dreamer  79 

souls  leaned  forward,  eager  at  once  to  come  within  its 
sway  and  let  it  soothe  them.  They  were  disappointed 
no  longer. 

"We  are  sorely  oppressed,  dear  friends,"  she  went  on. 
"Life  at  its  best  isn't  a  great  pleasure  to  us.  We  work 
too  hard;  we  get  too  little  for  what  we  do;  and  we  get 
bitter.  We  work  hard  all  day,  and  when  we  come  home 
at  night  we  are  all  tired  out,  and  we  don't  feel  good,  and 
we  don't  take  much  time  to  think  about  what  we  do  or 
what  its  effect  may  be  on  ourselves  or  others.  We  don't 
care  about  any  rules;  and  we  live  in  that  careless  way, 
and  it  makes  a  lot  of  trouble  for  us  sometimes,  and  for 
others.  Because  there  are  rules  that  we  should  not 
transgress;  and,  oh,  dear  friends,  how  much  better  it 
would  be  for  all  of  us  if  we  only  stopped  to  think  of  these 
rules,  and  didn't  break  them!  How  much  easier  life 
would  be  for  all  of  us,  how  much  more  joy  there  would  be 
in  living.  I  know  there  isn't  so  much  joy  for  many  of 
us  who  are  here  to-night.  The  world  doesn't  seem  to 
treat  us  fairly,  and  at  times  we  feel  that  all  the  misery  is 
loaded  onto  us,  and  that  nothing  can  help  us  —  nothing 
will  lighten  the  burden.  But  a  long  time  ago  there  lived 
on  this  earth  a  Being  whom  men  called  Jesus  Christ, 
the  Son  of  God.  He  was  a  very  simple  Being,  and  he 
saw  the  woe  and  misery  of  the  less  fortunate  people  of  the 
world,  people  like  ourselves,  and  he  gave  us  Hope.  Ye 
who  are  weary  and  heavy  laden,  come  unto  me,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest.  That  was  what  Jesus  Christ  said, 
this  Being  who  had  God's  wisdom  in  His  brain  and  a 
child's  tenderness  in  His  heart.  He  knew  how  hard 


80  Joey  the  Dreamer 

life  becomes  at  times.  He  lived  with  the  common  people, 
people  like  ourselves,  and  He  understood.  Yes,  He 
understood  all  that  fell  to  our  lot,  for  He  was  one  of  us. 
Dear  friends,  did  you  ever  stop  to  think  of  that?  He 
didn't  spend  his  time  with  the  great  people  of  the  land., 
the  rich  and  the  powerful,  but  among  the  common  people. 
People  like  ourselves.  For  He  loved  all  men,  and  those 
who  had  need  of  Him  most.  He  loved  more  than  all 
others.  He  knew  who  needed  Him,  too.  He  knew  how 
those  who  are  oppressed  grow  weary  of  trying  to  do  right 
—  as  we  do  —  and  how  they  must  have  a  ray  of  light,  a 
hope,  if  they  are  going  to  be  kept  from  plunging  into 
misery  and  unhappiness.  We  need  that  light  and  hope 
more  than  any  one  else,  dear  friends;  and  that  is  why 
Jesus  Christ  came  to  us." 

She  looked  around  the  little  group  slowly,  her  eyes 
resting  upon  each  one  with  an  expression  that  was  a 
caress.  Her  eyes  told  more  than  her  words;  they  were 
all  together,  all  of  one  great  family,  and  she  merely  was 
telling  them  the  things  they  ought  to  know.  There  now 
was  none  of  the  feeling  among  them  of  listening  to  a 
"preacher";  it  merely  was  one  friend  talking  to  many. 
They  sat  perfectly  silent,  eagerly  waiting  for  more. 
Even  the  blase  girl  —  pursuers  of  twenty  —  sensed  that 
she  was  "different." 

"He  came  with  His  message  of  hope,  and  His  great 
command  that  we  love  one  another.  He  spoke  of  Heaven, 
too,  but  also  He  told  us  how  to  live  most  happily  here 
on  earth.  His  religion  is  our  religion,  our  guidance,  and 
oh!  dear  friends,  how  much  more  happy  our  lives  would 


Joey  the  Dreamer  81 

be  if  we  only  would  heed  his  advice  —  if  we  would  live 
as  He  commanded. 

"He  told  us  to  love  our  neighbours.  By  neighbours 
he  meant  all  people.  It's  pretty  hard  to  think  of  loving 
all  people,  and  especially  is  it  hard  for  us  to  think  of  it 
just  now.  We  hardly  can  think  of  loving  those  people 
whom  we  feel  are  doing  us  great  harm;  it  doesn't  seem 
that  the  rule  can  apply  to  them.  We  cannot  love  them, 
perhaps,  but  we  must  not  hate  them.  For  when  we  hate 
we  begin  to  think  of  violence,  and  of  hurting  somebody, 
and  that  is  a  sin." 

An  ugly  little  laugh  broke  out  from  somewhere  in  the 
rear;  but  it  was  too  dark  to  see  the  interrupter  and  Ruth 
went  on. 

"We  mustn't  think  of  hurting  people  because  we  think 
they  have  hurt  us.  That  isn't  Christ's  will,  and  we  must 
listen  to  His  will,  for  only  in  that  way  will  we  be  happy. 
And,  dear  friends,  we  will  be  happy  if  we  do  follow  Him." 

Again  came  the  short,  sneering  laugh.  It  was  louder 
and  bolder  this  time;  yet  the  one  who  laughed  remained 
hidden  in  the  darkness  beyond  the  circle  of  light.  Ruth 
continued : 

"Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  what  a  good  world  this 
would  be  to  live  in,  friends,  if  we  all  remembered  and 
obeyed  that  old  command  to  love  one  another?  Think 
of  it!  There  would  be  no  cruelty  and  oppression;  no 
fighting,  no  stealing  —  none  of  the  things  that  make  life 
so  troublesome  at  times.  We  don't  harm  those  we 
love.  You  mothers  here  don't  hurt  the  little  children 
in  your  arms;  you  love  them;  you  would  do  anything  in 


82 

the  world  to  make  them  happy.  And  that  is  how 
Christ  meant  and  hoped  this  whole  world  —  among  all 
people  would  be  if  we  followed  His  rule,  if  we  loved 
one  another." 

The'children  wondered  why  their  mothers  gripped  them 
so  warmly.  She  had  struck  at  the  heart  of  her  people: 
No,  they  wouldn't  hurt  their  children;  yes,  it  was  because 
they  loved  them.  Two  or  three  of  the  women  sobbed, 
just  why  they  probably  didn't  know. 

"It's  true  that  we  haven't  got  much  time  to  waste  in 
loving  or  thinking  of  loving  people  like  us.  We're  too 
busy  trying  to  make  a  living,  and  trying  to  get  some 
clothes,  and  trying  to  have  meals  cooked  at  a  certain  time, 
and  keep  the  rooms  in  as  good  condition  as  possible  —  too 
busy  scrubbing  and  cleaning  —  to  think  about  loving 
anybody.  And  yet  isn't  it  so  that  you  do  all  you  can  for 
those  near  you  because  you  love  them?  And  they  do 
everything  they  can  for  you  for  the  same  reason  —  they 
love  you!  And  how  would  it  all  be  if  we  could  have  the 
same  kind  of  feeling  for  everybody,  for  our  neighbours 
and  they  for  us?  Of  course,  we  don't  expect  to  feel 
toward  outsiders  as  we  do  toward  those  in  our  own  family, 
and  it  isn't  well  that  we  should;  but  we  can  feel  in  a  way 
toward  them  as  we  do  toward  our  dear  ones.  We  can 
feel  kindly  toward  them.  We  can  wish  them  all  sorts 
of  good  things,  wish  that  they  keep  their  jobs,  and  their 
health,  and  that  they  may  be  happy.  And  we  can  feel 
that  we  can  never,  never  want  to  harm  them,  any  more 
than  we  would  want  to  harm  those  who  are  dear  to  us  in 
our  own  families.  And  that  is  what  Christ  meant,  dear 


Joey  the  Dreamer  83 

friends.  He  meant  that  we  —  all  of  us  —  should  feel 
like  that  toward  our  neighbours,  and  that  our  neighbours 
should  feel  that  way  toward  us.  And  if  we  did  —  oh ! 
what  a  difference  it  would  make  in  this  world!  How 
much  difference  it  would  make  to  us  above  all  people! 
Why  it  would " 

"Would  it  keep  the  Company  from  cutting  our  wages?" 
It  was  the  man  who  had  laughed  who  spoke.  He  had 
moved  toward  the  speaker  until  he  stood  within  the 
circle  of  light.  He  was  the  man  who  had  followed  from 
the  corner  and  he  was  playing  his  joke. 

"Your  Jesus  of  Nazareth!"  he  cried  scornfully.  "Don't 
you  know  that's  all  old  stuff?  He's  a  back  number. 
He  didn't  ever  know  what  conditions  would  be  to-day. 
He's  no  good  to  us.  Organize!  Organize!  That's  all 
that  will  help  us!" 

His  voice  rose  to  the  regular  shriek  of  his  breed.  Then 
he  was  gone,  and  a  child  cried  out  in  the  stillness  that 
followed. 

A  vagrant  whiff  of  wind  ruffled  the  light  leaves  in  the 
tree  tops,  but,  beneath,  all  was  still  and  grave.  Ruth 
stood  a  moment  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  Then:  "Dear 
friends,"  she  said  abruptly,  "let  us  pray:  Oh,  Thou, 
who  seest  all  things,  remember  us,  the  least  fortunate  of 
Thy  children.  Help  us  in  our  struggle  toward  the  light. 
Help  us  to  keep  faith  in  Thee.  Make  the  burden  less 
heavy,  so  that  faith  may  be  borne,  too.  And 
bring  Thy  light  to  those  who  are  fortunate;  let  them, 
too,  see  their  blindness.  We  pray  in  the  name  of  the 
Nazarene.  Amen." 


84  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Stooping  she  raised  the  sleeping  child  in  her  arms  and 
kissing  him  upon  the  forehead  bore  him  to  the  waiting 
mother. 

"God  bless  you!"  said  the  woman  brokenly.     "Bless 


you 


But  the  men  began  to  relight  their  pipes. 

"Thank  you,  sister,"  said  Ruth  warmly,  kissing  her 
upon  the  cheek.  Then  bidding  them  all  a  good  night, 
she  turned  down  the  path  to  where  I  sat  waiting.  Back 
at  the  knoll  the  crowd  remained  sitting.  The  Park 
seemed  strangely  cool  and  restful  on  this  night. 

"Failed ! "  murmured  Ruth  bitterly.  " Failed  utterly. 
They  could  not  accept  what  I  told  them.  I  had  no 
message;  it  meant  nothing  to  them.  And  yet  it  all  seemed 
so  simple,  so  evident,  and  so  true  to  me.  What  he  told 
them,  that  man,  that  was  what  they  wished  to  hear,  for 
that  meant  something  to  them,  they  understood.  Oh, 
it  is  hard,  hard!" 

"How  can  you  say  you  failed?"  I  cried.  "Did  you 
not  see  the  women?" 

I  thought  of  her  father  in  that  instant.  The  great 
Rev.  David  Arthur  never  questioned  the  success  of  his 
message,  never  doubted  for  an  instant  himself.  Self- 
sufficient,  revered,  powerful!  Verily;  what  will  not  an 
assured  position  do  to  the  souls  of  the  best  of  men! 

We  walked  out  slowly.  The  night  life  of  the  district 
droned  about  us.  We  were,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  shoulder 
to  shoulder  with  ten  thousand  of  our  kind.  And  they 
were  men  and  women  —  together.  In  all  that  maze  of 
humanity  I  began  to  feel  lonesome.  It  was  the  first 


Joey  the  Dreamer  85 

time  I  knew  the  sensation.  I  stepped  nearer  to  Ruth. 
She  looked  up,  even  as  I  looked  at  her.  The  lonesomeness 
began  to  go  away. 

So  do  the  great  moments  come  to  a  man;  they  —  But 
I  am  writing  the  story  of  Clay  Court. 

"What  were  you  thinking  of?"  she  asked. 

How  could  I  answer?  The  scheme  of  the  world  seemed 
to  have  been  made  over  for  me  in  the  last  four  hours. 
What  had  been,  was  not.  What  never  had  been,  was. 
The  things  that  I  had  known  —  that  all  my  world  had 
known  —  to  be  true,  were  lies,  builded  on  a  mire  of  error. 
The  world  was  not  what  we  thought,  and  wrote,  and  said 
it  was.  It  was  a  world  that  we  did  not  know;  we  had 
touched  the  pleasant  shores,  but  never  had  sought  to 
explore  the  interior.  And  our  gods  were  Ignorance  and 
Self-Deceit. 

But  at  all  events  my  discoveries  here,  few  as  they  were, 
had  left  me  sure  of  a  few  specific  conclusions:  Joey 
must  be  taken  out  of  the  Factory  and  away  from  the 
Tenement,  and  placed  where  he  could  live,  and  where  his 
great  soul  might  have  its  chance  to  flower  into  its  destiny; 
Delia  must  be  seen  safely  into  marriage  with  Freddy; 
Perkins  and  his  family  —  well,  something  must  be  done, 
that  was  sure. 

"I  was  wondering,"  said  I,  "how  many  Joeys,  and 
Delias,  and  Freddys,  and  Perkins  babies  there  are  in 
these  United  States!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

AD  now,  where  shall  we  go?" 
The     "show"   at  the    Imperial   was  over,    the 
crowd  was  emptying  itself  into  the  street,  and 
Freddy  and  Delia  stood  hi  the  lobby  and  basked  hi  the 
effulgence  of  Mr.  J.  Q.  A.  Binger. 

The  introduction  was  over.  Mr.  Binger  beamed,  the 
diamond  in  his  shirt  front  beamed,  the  gold  in  his  teeth 
and  the  rings  on  his  fingers  beamed,  and  he,  Binger,  the 
effulgent,  was  asking  Delia  to  name  the  place  where 
they  should  sup. 

That  was  the  greatest,  the  most  lasting  impression  of 
the  evening  for  Delia.  He,  Binger,  a  swell  gentleman, 
judging  her  solely  by  appearances,  presumed  that  she  was 
accustomed  to  supping  after  the  show. 

The  show  had  been  spoiled  for  Delia.  So  little  had 
she  noticed  what  was  going  on  across  the  foot-lights  that 
she  would  scarcely  have  attempted  to  say  whether  the 
show  was  good  or  bad;  and  normally  Delia  was  a 
critic,  bold  and  free.  But  there  were  greater  things 
afoot  to-night.  The  great,  glittering  dream  of  months 
was  to  be  realized;  after  the  show  —  supper  in  a  swell 
restaurant!  So  Delia,  being  by  nature  a  blooming 
little  butterfly,  and  by  circumstance  a  drab  little  moth, 
sat  impatiently  until  the  end;  and  then,  when  she 

86 


Joey  the  Dreamer  87 

met  Binger,  she  trembled,  though  she  couldn't  guess 
why. 

"And  now,  where  shall  we  go?" 

"Oh,  any  place,"  said  Delia.     "Don't  ask  me." 

"  Dere  is  Toussang's.  A  nice  place.  K-viet.  Goodt 
foodt.  Nice  crowd.  Do  you  like  Toussang's?" 

"Sure."  Delia  had  passed  the  place  once.  "Respect- 
able ain't  it?" 

"Ha  ha!"  laughed  Binger  till  his  fat  throat  rippled. 
"Respectable?  Toussang's?  Dat's  goodt.  Come;  I 
haf  a  cab  waiting." 

He  led  the  way  to  a  hansom  and  Delia,  whose  nearest 
acquaintance  with  hansom  was  dodging  them,  looked 
it  over  with  a  critical  eye  and  said:  "This  respectable, 
too?" 

And  Binger  was  won,  for  he  was  something  of  an 
epicure  was  Binger,  and  he  prided  himself  on  his 
reputation  for  having  a  good  eye. 

As  for  Delia,  it  must  be  admitted  that  she  was  in  a  state 
of  exhilaration  that  was  a  step  toward  a  condition  of 
complete  intoxication.  The  lights  in  the  lobby,  the 
golden  teeth  of  Binger,  the  shining  diamond,  the  soft 
seat  of  the  hansom,  all  of  them  helped  her  on.  Already 
she  had  flown  a  thousand  miles  away  from  Clay  Court; 
already  she  was  floating  in  a  strange  new  world  of  pleasure, 
a  delightful  world,  a  world  where  the  ugly  necessities  of 
life  did  not  exist,  where  pleasure  and  luxuries  were  the 
only  things  considered;  the  world,  in  short,  where  Delia 
felt  that  she  belonged.  Never  for  an  instant  did  she  feel 
that  she  was  out  of  place.  Nay,  on  the  other  hand,  she 


88  Joey  the  Dreamer 

felt  instinctively  that  she  had  found  her  true  environ- 
ment. The  little  hot-house  plant  had  sniffed  its  native  air. 

But  Freddy  —  poor  Freddy  —  was  out  of  place. 
Delia,  carefully  watching  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes, 
compared  Jiim  with  Binger,  Binger  the  magnificent, 
Binger  the  shiny;  and  Freddy  suffered  terribly.  No 
slickness  about  Freddy,  no  glittering  smile,  no  fat  hands 
on  which  to  display  diamond  rings.  Nothing  of  the  sort. 
Big  hands,  big  feet,  freckles,  humble  grin,  old-fashioned; 
Delia's  plumes  tossed  in  anger.  Why  should  Freddy  be 
like  that?  Why  couldn't  he  be  swell,  like  Binger?  Well, 
he  would  have  to  be  pretty  soon,  or  —  Delia  wrecked  her 
train  of  thought  guiltily;  but  in  her  heart  that  was  a  little 
pang  that  Freddy,  being  with  her,  betrayed  her  as  from 
Clay  Court. 

"Here  y'are,  sir."  The  cab  pulled  up  before  Dous- 
sang's,  the  lights  beckoned  them  in,  and  Binger,  more 
magnificent  than  ever,  ushered  them  through  the  glitter- 
ing portals,  gazed  for  a  moment  around  the  crowded 
room  and  crooked  a  jewelled  finger  at  the  head  waiter. 

"Two  to-night,  Mr.  Binger?" 

"T'ree  —  to-night." 

"Yessir,  yessir.     Three  —  for  Mr.   Binger.     Quick!" 

("Ah!"  thought  Delia,  "this  is  what  it  is  to  be  a  swell 
rich  gentleman!") 

They  found  themselves  at  a  favoured  table  in  a  corner. 
The  head  waiter  hovered  anxiously  about;  the  omnibus 
fairly  flew  to  set  the  table,  and  the  guests  at  the  nearby 
tables,  wonderful,  well-fed  women  with  wonderful  faces 
and  marvellous  busts,  elegant  men,  with  wonderful 


Joey  the  Dreamer  89 

clothes,  and  oil-slicked  hair,  turned  red  necks  and  whis- 
pered that,  yes,  that  was  Binger,  the  showman,  but 
what  was  that  with  him,  d'you  know? 

"A  nice  place.     K-viet;  goodt  service  andt  —  andt 
always  respectable.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Now,  for  indstance  — 
Binger  picked  up  the  menu  with    the  air  of    a    man  to 
whom   ordering   midnight   suppers   is  a  delight — "for 
indstance,  what  shouldt  we  begin  with?" 

The  crowd,  the  wonderful,  well-fed  women  and  the 
elegant  men;  the  perfume;  the  grand  waiters;  the  music 
from  the  band  in  the  red  suits;  the  swish  of  costly  clothes, , 
all  went  to  Delia's  head.  She  scarcely  heard  Binger. 
She  leaned  back  far  in  her  chair,  and  drank  it  all  in  with 
staring  eyes. 

"A  cocktail?    Nice  Rossington's  here." 

"No,"  said  Freddy. 

"Martini?" 

"No." 

"Don't  drink,"  said  Delia  coming  out  of  her  dream. 
"Not  to-night,  anyhow,"  she  added,  and  relapsed  into 
her  state  of  pleasant  bewilderment,  while  the  blood  came 
with  a  rush  into  her  face  and  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  her 
lips  grew  redder  than  ever.  She  heard  Freddy  say 
critically:  "Bad  'cello  in  that  orchestra,"  heard  Binger 
give  his  orders.  She  answered  "Yes"  to  hah*  of  his 
suggestions  and  shook  her  head  at  the  rest.  But  mostly 
she  dreamed,  and  this  was  her  dream:  that  Doussang's 
was  her  world  and  that  dusty,  sweaty  finishing-rooms 
did  not  exist. 

"Ain't  it  grand?"  she  whispered  once  to  Freddy. 


90  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"What?" 

"The  — the  whole  thing." 

"Oh,  sure,"  said  Freddy,  in  such  a  curt  tone  that 
Delia  had  to  laugh. 

Singer's  piggish  little  eyes  followed  her  movements 
when  Freddy  was  not  looking.  Before  the  supper  was 
half  over  he  had  given  Freddy  a  permanent  place  in  the 
Saturday  evening  bill  at  Electric  Park,  with  the  under- 
standing that  it  was  to  be  a  regular  all-week  thing  if  he 
"took."  Near  the  end  of  the  meal  he  assured  him 
heartily  that  he  would  "take"  without  a  doubt. 

"You're  goodt  enough,"  said  Binger  lolling  fatly  back 
in  his  chair.  "Dere  issn't  anny  chanct  dat  you  ain'dt 
goodt  enough.  Budt  idt  iss  hi  gedtting  going  righdt 
that  coundts.  I  vill  fix  you  up  righdt." 

Oh,  what  an  evening  that  was  for  Delia!  Lights  to 
the  left,  the  right,  and  all  about  her.  Lights  on  the  table 
beside  them.  Flashing,  shimmering  gowns,  and  jewels, 
and  always  the  wonderful  women  and  the  well-dressed 
men,  and  she,  the  little  stitcher,  sitting  there  in  the 
midst  of  them,  and  as  good  as  any  of  them.  As  good 
as  any!  She  knew  it.  Instinctively  she  knew  it. 
Binger  knew  women,  knew  how  to  appraise  them,  and 
were  not  his  eyes  upon  her  even  when  the  grandest  of 
those  big,  full-busted  women  swept  swishing  past? 
And  did  not  the  men  who  passed  gaze  upon  her  with 
significant  eyes? 

She  was  attractive.  Even  there  in  the  midst  of  all  that 
competition  she  was  more  than  holding  her  own  Eve-like 
own.  Delia  shook  herself  and  tilted  the  soft  little  chin 


Joey  the  Dreamer  91 

in  the  air.  She  was  happy,  drunkenly  happy.  She 
had  glimpsed  her  paradise.  This  was  where  "she 
belonged. 

She  looked  at  Freddy,  and  the  red  mounted  into  her 
temples  and  her  eyes  once  more  felt  hot  with  shame.  The 
sign  of  Clay  Court  was  writ  large  upon  him.  Even  to 
the  honesty  that  showed  flagrantly  in  his  merry  blue 
eyes  was  he  of  the  earth  earthy.  It  was  a  shame,  thought 
Delia.  Freddy  certainly  would  have  to  become  more 
stylish.  On  second  thought  she  drew  considerable  com- 
fort from  the  meditation  that  the  crowd  around  them 
couldn't  possibly  know  but  what  she  was  with  the  large, 
the  ornate,  the  stylish  Binger.  But  Freddy  would  be 
all  right  when  he  got  more  style,  when  he  was  more  like 
the  elegant  gentlemen  who  ordered  waiters  around  as  if 
they  had  been  born  in  a  restaurant. 

They  parted  from  Binger  at  a  corner  after  midnight;  he 
went  to  his  gleaming  hotel,  they  took  the  car  for  Clay 
Court ;  and  Delia  choked  down  something  in  her  throat 
as  Freddy  seated  her  beside  a  dust-covered  night  labourer. 
How  dirty  and  unpleasant  it  was!  How  commonplace 
the  crowd  that  went  home  with  them.  How  dim  the 
lights.  How  different  from  the  world  they  had  just 
stepped  out  of. 

She  discouraged  all  of  Freddy's  efforts  at  conversation. 
Her  thoughts  were  running  in  a  bitter  circle.  She  saw 
the  dirty,  hopeless  court  to  which  they  were  going. 
Then  the  Tenement  which  they  called  home.  Then  the 
Factory.  Then  the  Tenement  again,  and  then  the 
Factory  once  more.  An  endless  circle,  punctuated 


92  Joey  the  Dreamer 

occasionally  by  excursions  with  Freddy,  but  in  the  main 
that  was  life  to  her:  The  Tenement  and  the  Factory 
in  a  ceaseless  round. 

"Oh,  Freddy!"  she  cried  suddenly  in  a  whisper. 
"Wouldn't  it  be  swell  to  have  enough  money  to  eat  in 
those  swell  places  all  the  time." 

"Sure,"  said  Freddy,  doubtfully.  "Get  the  gout, 
though,  I  guess." 

She  laughed,  not  at  his  remark,  but  at  him. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you  would,"  she  said.  But  Freddy 
did  not  notice  that  the  accent  was  on  the  "you." 

He  helped  her  off  the  car  with  great  solicitude,  and  she 
shuddered  as  the  dark  court,  rendered  all  the  more  gloomy 
by  two  gas  lamps,  loomed  up  before  them.  And  near  the 
corner  stood  the  inevitable  group  of  men  with  Rine- 
hart  as  their  leader,  discussing  the  impending  trouble 
at  the  Factory. 

"Aw,  gee!"  pouted  Delia.  It  was  the  proverbial  cold 
water.  "Why  can't  they  shut  up.  They'll  be  spoiling 
things  for  everybody  first  thing  they  know." 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,"  said  Freddy  cheerfully.  "Not  for 
us.  You  notice  how  things  are  coming  my  way,  don't 
you?  I  tell  you,  Delia"  —  he  bent  over  her  earnestly — 
"when  a  man  goes  along  tending  to  his  own  business,  and 
leaves  the  booze  alone,  and  tries  to  do  something  the  best 
he  knows  how,  it's  pretty  hard  for  others  to  spoil  things 
for  him.  A  man's  his  own  spoiler  if  he's  spoiled.  All 
a  fellow  has  got  to  do  to  get  going  right  is  to  keep  away 
from  things  like  this,  and  set  his  mind  on  something,  and 
keep  plugging  away  at  that  one  thing,  and  keep  his 


J 

Joey  the  Dreamer  93" 

nerve,  and  the  first  thing  you  know  things' 11  be  turning 
out  the  way  for  us  —  all  to  the  rosy." 

"Perhaps,"    said   Delia. 

"  Sure.  And  we  don't  have  to  worry  about  all  this 
disturbance,  not  me  and  you.  Understand?" 

She  made  no  answer.  They  were  in  the  Tenement 
hallway. 

"Well?"  said  Freddy.  She  turned  and  faced  him. 
Instinctively  they  leaned  toward  each  other.  He  took 
her  in  his  arms,  and  she  gave  in  and  pressed  closely  to 
him.  After  all  Freddy  was  her  fate.  ...  It  was  dark 
in  the  hallway.  They  were  all  alone. 

"Next  Saturday  night  tells  the  story,  Dell,"  said 
Freddy,  when  the  time  for  parting  came.  "It's  all  right, 
Dell,  say  you  know  it's  all  right." 

"Yes."  She  hung  on  him  fiercely  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  laughed  recklessly.  "I'll  dream  of  diamonds 
to-night,  anyhow." 

"All  the  time,"  said  Freddy.  "Because  it's  as  good 
as  settled  and  me  and  you  get  out  of  this  mess  for  good." 

"Do   we?" 

"You  bet!"  he  said,  shaking  his  fist  at  Clay  Court. 
"You  bet.  We've  got  this  game  beat  to  a  fare  —  ye  — 
well!" 

Poor  Freddy!    Poor  Delia! 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  Tenement  sleeps.  The  noise  and  the  brawl- 
ing die  down.  Footsteps  on  the  stairs  grow  fewer 
and  fewer  until  at  last  there  are  none.  The 
lights  go  out  save  the  single  flickering  jet  in  each  hall. 
The  fat,  stinking  darkness  of  the  Tenement  night 
comes  into  its  own;  and  the  rats  run  scampering  here 
and  there,  searching  with  avid  noses  for  food  bits 
in  the  halls. 

Up  in  the  blackest  corner  of  the  fourth  floor  hall 
little  Joey  cowers  against  the  wall  till  the  last  stray  noises 
have  vanished  and  the  darkness  and  silence  are  complete. 
Like  a  fugitive  hiding  from  his  pursuers,  he  crouches  in  the 
gloom,  the  single  spot  in  the  Tenement  where  the  sicken- 
ing night  brawls  can  not  reach  him. 

He  had  come  home  slowly  from  Ruth's  meeting.  He 
had  wandered  back  to  sit  on  the  curb  before  the  Tenement 
and  wait  until  the  sounds  from  the  second  floor  rear  died 
down  to  a  somewhat  sane  level.  Then  cautiously  he  had 
crept  up  the  stairs  and,  sneaking  on  tiptoes,  had  peered 
into  the  Bruggers's  home.  He  had  come  away  in  a  great 
hurry,  for  some  things  he  could  not  look  upon,  and  his 
mother  awake  and  far  gone  in  liquor  was  one  of  them, 
and  it  being  too  late  for  the  street  he  had  dragged  him- 
self up  to  the  fourth  floor's  black  hole,  beyond  the  reach 

94 


Joey  the  Dreamer  95 

of  the  gas  jet's  trembling  light;  and  there  he  remains, 
hugging  his  knees,  till  the  silence  tells  him  that  the 
second  floor  rear  is  asleep,  that  alcohol  has  made  it  safe 
for  him  to  go  home.  He  knows  what  the  home  will  be 
and  what  he  will  find  there  in  all  probability  —  father 
and  mother  together  upon  the  kitchen  floor,  feebly  clasped 
in  a  last  maudlin  embrace  or  gripping  each  other  in 
the  postures  of  a  busy  little  family  row.  For  one 
quality  Joey's  parents  have  in  common;  they  both 
succumb  at  once. 

In  spite  of  these  things,  however,  home  is  home,  a  bed 
is  a  bed,  and  tired,  aching  bones  cry  out  for  a  place  of  rest, 
let  the  pain  to  the  soul  be  what  it  may.  It  is  an  old  story 
to  Joey,  though  he  never  grows  used  to  it,  for  all  his  life 
he  has  never  known  anything  else.  His  first  and  best 
memories  are  of  a  room  where  the  floor  was  damp  and  an 
alley  directly  outside  the  window.  But  it  had  a  window. 
Ah !  that  was  the  dream  to  remember :  it  had  an  outside 
window.  It  was  low,  down  near  the  ground  —  the  room 
was  on  the  first  floor  —  and  two  wooden  bars  nailed 
across  its  lower  half  served  as  nurse  maid  and  guardian  for 
Joey.  His  mother  sat  him  up  in  the  open  window  and 
Joey  leaned  out  between  the  bars  and  soaked  his  head  in 
the  warmth  and  smells  of  the  sunny  alley,  and  fought  the 
flies  that  strove  to  enter  his 'eyes,  ears,  nose,  and  mouth. 

So  did  Joey  first  remember  that  he  had  seen  this  world. 
The  alley  was  his  universe.  In  it  and  its  life  he  saw 
existence.  He  was  shocked  when  he  had  his  first  con- 
scious glimpse  of  the  street  in  front.  He  had  fancied  the 
world  as  a  world  of  alleys. 


96  Joey  the  Dreamer 

The  life  of  the  alley  was  a  busy  one,  especially  for  the 
eye  of  a  child  which  notes  all  the  tiny  things  that  escape 
the  dull  adult  faculty.  Rats  ran  around,  in,  over,  and 
under  the  garbage  boxes;  dusty,  worn-looking  cats 
pursued  them,  the  cats  in  their  turn  being  pursued  by 
dusty,  worn-looking,  scarred  dogs.  Regularly  each 
afternoon  a  group  of  men  gathered  near  the  window  and 
drank  beer.  They  kept  the  pail  hidden  under  the  eaves 
of  a  low  shed.  When  the  pail  was  emptied  they  threw 
the  scanty  dregs  directly  under  the  window,  and  the  flies 
gathered  there  in  hordes.  The  odour  of  stale  beer 
always  was  in  Joey's  nostrils. 

Other  things  happened  in  the  alley.  There  were 
fights  between  men,  women,  children,  and  dogs.  There 
was  much  crap  shooting,  especially  on  Sunday  afternoons, 
and  sometimes  the  police  came,  and  then  Joey  sucked  his 
thin  fist  wonderingly  and  gazed  with  great  eyes  at  the 
desperate  confusion  that  came  over  the  scene.  There 
were  even  lovers'  meetings  back  there  in  the  alley; 
clandestine  wooings  of  the  modest,  and  of  the  dishonest, 
who  sought  to  remove  their  love-making  from  the  eyes 
of  the  street. 

Then  there  were  the  peddlers,  the  rag  pickers,  and  all 
the  various  scavengers  to  whom  the  alleys  are  their  fields 
of  livelihood.  Their  cries  were  the  only  music  that  came 
to  Joey's  ears.  He  waited  eagerly  for  their  coming,  and 
sometimes  they  pointed  at  him  with  their  whips  or 
hooks.  And  on  one  bright  day  had  come  a  great  event, 
the  incident  that  stood  out  in  Joey's  memory  with  yester- 
day's vividness.  A  red-bearded  Russian  Jew  had  stopped 


Joey  the  Dreamer  97 

before  the  window,  smiled  queerly  up  at  the  face  between 
the  bars,  and,  reaching  into  the  bag  on  his  back,  had 
brought  out  and  handed  to  Joey  a  broken  piece  of  mirror. 
Joey  was  stunned  with  happiness  over  the  gift.  He  cut 
his  mouth  on  the  sharp  edges  first,  testing  the  thing's 
edibility,  but  soon  having  discovered  the  glass's  function 
he  was  contented  the  day  long. 

One  day  it  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  fell  out  in  the 
alley,  and  a  passing  wagon  crushed  it  under  wheel.  Joey 
cried  for  a  week.  Nobody  ever  replaced  the  mirror. 

Such  were  the  memories  that  Joey  looked  back  to  with 
pleasure,  the  short,  bright  days  of  life  before  the  Factory 

claimed  him  for  its  own!  And  he  looked  forward  to 

But  let  us  follow  him  to-night  and  perhaps  we  may  see. 

Out  from  his  hole  comes  Joey,  much  like  a  trembling 
little  rat.  The  light  from  the  hall  jet  strikes  him  and  he 
blinks  as  he  starts  downstairs.  Joey,  being  used  to  the 
place,  does  not  notice  -what  would  at  once  strike  the 
strange  visitor's  attention;  the  odour  of  those  dark  halls 
at  night  is  like  the  stink  of  a  prison.  They  stink  with 
the  stink  of  many  people  cooped  in  a  small  space.  They 
reek  with  the  odour  of  air  that  is  caught  and  trapped  and 
seldom  changed.  In  prisons  the  visitor  notices  first  of 
all  the  prison-smell,  an  odour  that  is  to  be  found  no  place 
else  on  earth,  and  so  it  must  be  with  the  unaccustomed 
visitor  to  the  Tenement  on  this  evening.  There  is  a 
suggestion  of  kinship  in  these  smells;  though  carefully 
analyzed  they  are  quite  different.  Nature  resents  the 
trapping  of  any  of  its  breeds;  and  perhaps  our  Tenement 
is  more  akin  to  the  prison  than  we  suspect. 


98  Joey  the  Dreamer 

At  all  events,  there  is  the  stink.  There  is  not  enough 
ventilation  to  disturb  it.  It  hangs  in  the  motionless  air 
like  a  fog,  and  the  newcomer  may  pause  to  wonder  how 
long  he  might  breathe  this  without  acquiring  the  taint 
with  which  it  all  seems  poisoned. 

Joey  doesn't  stop  to  wonder.  One  would  say  at  first 
hand  that  he  was  unconscious  of  the  smells  that  envelop 
him.  This  would  be  in  error,  and  a  slander  of  Joey's 
present  famishing  condition.  Though  that  medley  of 
odours,  so  tightly  amalgamated  that  inexperienced  noses 
discover  but  one,  Joey's  experienced  olfactories  dive 
with  certainty,  and  pounce  upon  one  that  arouses  interest 
Jn  Joey's  brain.  Downstairs  the  scent  drags  him.  He 
is  on  the  first  floor  now,  and  by  the  tiny  flicker  of  gas  at 
the  front  of  the  hall,  he  bends  to  search  for  the  odour's 
source.  And  now  by  the  same  half  inch  of  burning  gas, 
and  following  Joey's  movements,  we  may  see  with  the 
naked  eye  one  of  the  several  reasons  for  the  odour  that 
strikes  the  senses  at  a  first  entrance.  On  both  sides  of  the 
hall,  at  irregular  intervals,  stand  pails  containing  the 
waste  of  the  food  of  those  who  dwell  within.  There  is 
no  need  or  excuse  for  detail.  Most  of  that  food  was 
spoiled  ere  it  ever  reached  the  Tenement;  all  of  the  waste 
is  in  the  advanced  stages  of  putrescence.  Joey  goes 
along  from  pail  to  pail  until  he  finds  the  one  containing 
the  spoiled  orange  whose  odour  led  him  to  the  chase. 
He  carries  it  forth  to  the  light.  It  is  only  green  in  spots. 
Joey  eats  it  there  under  the  gas  with  the  disregard  of  the 
utterely  famished.  For  this  is  one  of  the  triumphs  of 
civilization,  that  a  child  can  grow  up  half-starved  within 


Joey  the  Dreamer  99 

six  squares  of  opulence.  Then  the  clamour  of  his  empty 
stomach  half  stilled  he  remounts  the  steps  to  the  second 
floor  and  noiselessly  goes  to  his  room. 

"Oh,  mother!"  a  little  girl  —  a  well-fed,  decently 
clothed  little  girl  —  once  cried  upon  first  seeing  a 
room  in  the  Tenement,  "Do  little  boys  and  girls  live 
here?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  mother. 

"Oh,  mother!"  Tears  stood  in  the  little  girl's  eyes. 
"Whatever  have  they  done!" 

Perhaps  this  is  describing  the  rooms  of  the  Tenement 
better  than  could  be  done  in  many  words. 

Since  the  building  is  as  broad  as  it  is  long,  and  quite 
without  light  or  airshafts,  it  follows  that  certain  rooms, 
mainly  those  in  the  building's  rear,  will  be  entirely  with- 
out those  most  desirable  quantities  in  dwellings  —  day- 
light and  fresh  air.  Given  fair  play  and  it  would  seem 
that  such  rooms,  if  occupied  they  must  be,  would  fall  to 
the  lot  of  those  who,  through  sturdiness  of  body,  would 
suffer  least  from  the  lack  of  these  desirable  quantities. 
But,  of  course,  nothing  of  the  sort  happens.  There  is 
one  room  just  a  little  darker,  just  a  little  farther  removed 
from  the  air,  just  a  little  worse  than  any  other  above 
ground  in  the  Tenement.  It  is  a  small  room,  for  it  is 
supposed  to  be  a  closet,  and  is  at  the  end  of  the  hall  on  the 
second  floor.  It  is  an  inner  room,  removed  even  from 
the  open  space  of  the  hall.  It  is  one  of  the  most  unfit 
human  habitations  to  be  found  in  the  world,  be  it  among 
the  civilized  or  the  savage.  It  is  Joey's  room,  because 
he  is  helpless  and  small.  The  Tenement  is  a  mine,  the 


100  Joey  the  Dreamer 

halls  are  pit  holes,  and  little  Joey's  room  is  at  the  end, 
the  blackest  chamber  of  them  all. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bruggers,  collectively  or  individually, 
are  not  on  the  kitchen  floor  to-night,  and  Joey's  heart 
sinks.  They  lie  crosswise  just  inside  the  door  of  their 
bedroom  and  Joey,  to  reach  his  room,  must  pass  through 
that  bedroom.  If  he  wakes  them  there  will  be  curses, 
though  the  flesh  may  be  too  weak  to  rise  and  deal 
out  blows. 

Joey  reconnoitres.  Mr.  Bruggers  lies  spread  out  flat, 
face  downward,  his  nose  so  flattened  against  the  floor 
that  he  takes  in  breath  with  a  noise  of  mighty  suction. 
On  top  of  him,  her  face  serenely  upturned  toward  the 
ceiling,  lies  Mrs.  Bruggers,  her  mouth  open,  her  great 
bosom  rising  and  falling  with  the  regularity  of  a  machine. 
The  faint  light  gleams  on  her  shiny  round  cheeks,  on  her 
nose  and  chin.  Obviously  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do, 
and  Joey  does  it  as  he  has  done  before.  Noiselessly  remov- 
ing his  shoes  he  leaps  the  human  barrier,  missing  Mrs. 
Bruggers's  shiny  nose  by  a  scant  inch,  and  landing  on 
the  other  side  with  a  thud  that  jars  Mr.  Bruggers's  hard 
pressed  physiognomy.  But  it  no  more  awakens  him 
than  the  creak  of  the  undertaker's  screw-driver  awakens 
the  corpse.  A  man  in  a  condition  to  bear  Mrs.  Bruggers 
on  his  back  without  remonstrance  is  in  no  shape  to  notice 
trifles.  Joey  takes  one  last  look  at  his  snoring  parents, 
and  crosses  the  bedroom  to  his  door. 

"A  clothes  closet,"  said  the  man  who  builded  the 
Tenement. 

"Closet,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Bruggers  when  she  saw 


Joey  the  Dreamer  101 

it.  "Clo's,  who's  got  clo's  to  waste  hangin*  'em  on  the 
wall.  A  room  for  Joey;  that's  what  'tis.  Jest  his  peekid 
little  fit." 

Joey  opened  the  door.  The  door  opened  outward, 
else  it  could  not  have  opened  at  all,  for  the  broken  piece 
of  a  sofa  that  served  for  a  bed  occupied  the  room  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  else.  There  was  no  light.  As  Mrs. 
Bruggers  said,  what  was  the  use  of  a  light  in  a  place  like 
that,  anyway?  There  wasn't  anything  there  to  see,  and 
a  body  could  feel  his  way  to  bed  as  well  as  not.  Light, 
indeed !  Where  would  you  put  a  light  in  there  if  you  had 
it?  They  had  a  light  in  their  room;  if  he  wanted  to  see  a 
light,  why,  let  him  open  the  door.  Which,  of  a 
necessity,  worked  out  quite  well,  for  Joey  had  to  keep  his 
door  ajar  to  escape  the  inconvenience  of  complete 
suffocation. 

Joey  carefully  felt  his  way  to  the  bed.  Carefully, 
in  order  that  the  creaking  of  unsteady  frame  and  legs 
might  not  alarm,  he  seated  himself  upon  its  edge.  His 
shoes  he  tucked  under  the  thin  pallet  of  corn  husks  that 
served  for  his  pillow,  and  then  wearily  his  chin  sank  into 
his  hands,  and  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  Joey  sat 
crumpled  up  there  in  the  dark  and  stared  in  hopeless 
abstraction  at  nothing. 

But  his  mind  was  busy  with  a  wonderful  picture.  He 
was  trying  to  see  God,  as  Ruth  in  her  prayer  had  spoken 
of  Him. 

God  was  a  new  thing  in  Joey's  life.  It  was  a  strange 
thing,  so  strange,  so  far  away  and  mysterious,  and  yet  so 
directly  compelling  in  its  awful  grasp  on  him  that  he 


102  Joey  the  Dreamer 

would  have  shrunk  down  in  abject  terror  had  it  been 
other  hands  than  Miss  Ruth's  that  had  held  forth  the 
light.  But  because  of  her  he  felt  safe,  though  he  feared 
strangely. 

"O  God,  you  who  see  all  things,  give  us  —  all  of  us  — 
a  little  of  your  divine  Light  to-night."  What  was  the 
Light?  What  was  God?  What  was  He  like? 

Certainly  He  was  very  big,  for  even  Miss  Ruth  was 
afraid  of  Him;  she  bowed  her  head  when  she  spoke  His 
name.  And  then  He  must  be  very  old,  because  He 
knew  so  much.  And  He  couldn't  be  working,  because 
He  had  time  to  sit  and  see  all  things.  All  things!  That 
was  quite  a  stretcher.  Still  Miss  Ruth  said  it,  and 
Miss  Ruth  ought  to  know. 

Joey  visualized  Ruth's  face  with  little  effort.  God, 
somehow,  he  could  not  see. 

"If  he  wuz  a  woman  He'd  be  like  Miss  Ruth,"  was  his 
nearest  approach  to  a  decision.  '  'N'  He  knows 
ever'thing." 

Everything,  Miss  Ruth  said.  Then  He  must  know 
about  Miss  Ruth,  and  John,  and  Delia,  and  the  pair  on 
the  floor,  and  —  and  —  Joey's  hands  dropped  at  his 
side  with  a  start.  If  He  knows  about  everything,  and 
all  the  others,  He  must  know  —  He  must  know,  about 
him,  Joey ! 

Joey  thought  it  over  a  long  time.  He  was  skeptical 
on  that  point.  How  could  any  one  see  him  there  in  that 
dark  closet?  And  yet,  how  comforting  it  would  be  if  he 
could  believe  that  some  one  did  see  him,  that  some  one 
was  looking  at  him  there  in  the  dark,  that  he  wasn't 


Joey  the  Dreamer  103 

entirely  alone,  forgotten  and  unseen !  And  this  some  one 
existed,  said  Miss  Ruth,  and  He  was  God. 

Who  can  probe  the  startled  marvellings  of  the  virgin 
soul  reared  in  the  Land  of  Darkness  suddenly  glimpsing 
the  Realm  of  Hope,  dazzled  and  stricken  dumb  by  the 
wonder  of  it,  skeptical  through  cruel  experience,  yet  in  its 
deepest,  most  vital  depths  exulting,  even  unconsciously, 
in  the  moment's  revelation  of  its  kinship  with  God? 
Such  things  are  not  to  be  put  on  paper,  or  even  spoken  by 
word  of  mouth.  They  find  their  expression  in  finer  and 
more  significant  effects  than  these  coarse  interpretations ; 
they  live  in  actions.  Joey,  up  there  in  the  muggy 
darkness,  child  that  he  was,  threw  his  face  down  on  the 
mouldy  bed  and  begged  for  a  sight  of  Something  —  he 
knew  not  what. 

The  eternal  God  —  need  of  mankind  had  stirred  in 
him.  He  knew  nothing;  he  was  blind  and  in  the  dark. 
He  could  not  see  or  understand;  he  could  only  weep  and 
suffer;  and  so,  weeping  and  suffering,  he  went  to  his 
knees  beside  the  bed,  why  he  knew  not,  and  presently 
little  Joey  began  to  try  to  pray. 

He  was  afraid  to  talk  out  loud,  as  Miss  Ruth  had  done. 
The  pair  on  the  floor  might  hear.  He  wondered  if  talking 
aloud  was  necessary,  and  deciding  to  make  the  best  of 
the  situation,  he  began  to  whisper  and  plumped  down 
on  his  knees  beside  the  bed, 

"Mister  God,  I  ain't  wise  to  you  like  Miss  Ruth,  but 
she  sez  that  you're  wise  to  all  of  us,  even  to  a  little  kid 
like  me.  Is  that  straight,  Mister  God?  Are  yuh?  I 
don't  believe  yuh  are,  meself ;  but  Miss  Ruth  sez  yuh  are, 


104  Joey  the  Dreamer 

and  she  never  sprung  a  con  on  me  yet.  'N'  she  sez 
yuh're  watching  over  ever'thing  all  the  time,  'n'  want 
ev'rybody  to  do  the  right  thing  'n'  be  good.  'N'  if  that's 
straight,  Mister  God,  I  wanta  know  why  yuh  don't  let 
me  know  when  I'm  so  awf'ly  lonesome  and  yuh  know 
how  swell  it  would  'be  for  me  to  have  yuh  talk  to  me? 
Why  don't  yuh  let  me  know  some  way  that  you're  list'ning 
when  I'm  talking  here  like  this?  Can't  yuh  wise  me  up 
a  little,  mister,  so  I  know  that  I  ain't  talking  to  nothen' 
but  meself?  Yuh  know  a  guy  don't  want  to  talk  when 
they  ain't  nobody  hearin'  him;  and  how  can  I  know, 
Mister  God,  that  you're  hearin'  me  if  you  don't  put  me 
next  some  way?" 

His  lips  ceased  moving  as  he  stopped  to  debate  with 
himself  the  question  of  how  can  any  one  know?  How 
could  Miss  Ruth  know?  There  had  been  no  answer 
from  the  One  she  was  speaking  to.  But  she  had  gone 
away  almost  at  once  after  the  prayer.  That  was  so. 
Perhaps  she  hadn't  waited  long  enough.  It  must  take  quite 
a  time,  especially  with  so  many  praying  and  keeping  Him 
busy.  Perhaps  a  fellow  had  to  wait  some  time  for  his 
answer.  If  so,  he  had  better  go  on  and  finish. 

"  I  know  yuh  got  a  lot  to  do,  Mister  God,  and  perhaps 
you're  too  busy  to  hear  me,  but  if  you'd  only  let  me  know, 
an'  if  I  only  wuz  sure  that  I  wuz  'spielun'  to  somebody, 
'n'  it  wuz  yuh  'n'  yuh  wuz  like  what  Miss  Ruth  sez, 
Mister  God,  can't  yuh  see  how  swell  it  would  be  fer  me 
when  I  get  in  here  alone  in  the  dark,  and  I  can't  sleep, 
and  there  ain't  nobody  to  talk  to,  and  I'm  so  —  so  lone- 
some, kind-a!  I  get  so  awf'l  lonesome,  Mister  God. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  105 

There  ain't  nobody  with  me,  an'  nobody  to  talk  to,  an* 
sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  wuz  left  out  of  ever'thing, 
and  ev'rybody;  'cause  ev'rybody's  got  some  one  with 
them  but  me." 

Words  failed  him  for  a  moment  and  the  whisper  ceased 
till  the  choking  feeling  in  his  throat  was  gone. 

"O  Mister  God!  Can't  yuh  see  how  it  is?  Yuh  know 
ever'thing,  don't  yuh?  An'  so  yuh  must  know  how  it 
feels  to  be  all  alone.  Jes'  think  how  you'd  feel  yerself, 
if  yuh  was  me  —  O  please,  Mister  God,  don't  let  me  be 
so  lonesome;  an'  let  me  know  if  you're  hearing  me  when 
I'm  talking  to  yuh,  as  Miss  Ruth  says,  an'  then  I  —  I 
won't  be  lonesome  Mister  God,  if  I  know  you're 
hearing.  Now,  don't  forget,  will  you?"  A  pause,  then: 
"My  name's  Joey  Bruggers  and  I  live  at  49  Clay  Court, 
second  floor,  rear.  S'long." 

The  whisper  stopped  for  good.  For  a  long  time  Joey 
remained  on  his  knees,  waiting  for  an  answer.  He  was 
both  patient  and  skeptical,  yet  his  own  prayer  had  given 
him  some  faith.  Since  the  beginning  of  time  men  have 
made  many  fine  prayers  to  many  gods;  but  none  ever 
prayed  with  more  poignant  yearning  in  his  heart  than  did 
this  lonely  little  atom  up  there  in  his  dark,  dirty  closet 
at  the  end  of  the  second  floor  hall.  He  grew  very  tired. 
His  knees  ached,  and  he  was  growing  cold  and  sick  at  the 
stomach.  His  street-gamin  cynicism  told  him  that  it 
was  no  use,  there  wouldn't  be  any  answer/but  something, 
a  new  feeling  that  he  nourished  because  there  was  Hope 
in  it,  drove  him  to  wait  on. 

He  grew  sleepy.     He  nodded  twice  and  caught  himself 


106  Joey  the  Dreamer 

sharply.  He  continued  to  wait.  He  listened  eagerly. 
The  snoring  of  his  parents  answered  him.  But  there 
came  no  answer. 

"Huh!"  said  Joey  rising.  "I  knew  it  all  the  time." 
The  bed  creaked  noisily;  creaked  again  after  awhile, 
then  all  was  still.  In  the  bedroom  doorway  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bruggers  snored,  and  snored,  and  snored.  In  the 
closet,  the  mystic  silence  of  complete  darkness  was 
punctuated  at  intervals  by  a  faint,  gulping  sound.  On 
his  ragged  bed  little  Joey  Bruggers  lay  with  his  face  to- 
ward the  wall  and  shook  to  his  toes  with  the  heart-tearing 
sobs  of  childish  disappointment.  But  he  smothered  the 
sobs  so  his  snoring  elders  might  not  be  disturbed. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THERE  are  two  ways  of  telling  that  Sunday  has 
come  to  Clay  Court,  beside  the  startling  quiet. 
On  the  second  floor  of  No.  39  a  slim  girl  in  a 
black  wrapper  stands  near  the  window  and  combs  her 
hair.  Her  motion  has  in  it  that  which  signifies  all  the 
leisure  in  the  world.  Week-days  one  only  glimpses  her. 
She  hurries  to  the  window,  glances  at  the  mirror  that 
brings  her  to  the  front  of  the  room,  and  with  a  twist  of  her 
white  hands  coils  the  thick  braids  upon  her  head  and  is 
gone.  On  Sunday  she  combs,  and  combs,  and  combs. 
Her  hair  is  shiny  black.  It  is  a  marvel,  the  attention  she 
can  bestow  on  a  single  hair.  She  is  not  beautiful  save 
for  her  hair.  Her  hair  must  be  her  single  delight.  And, 
like  the  rest  of  Clay  Court,  Sunday  is  the  one  day  in  seven 
on  which  she  may  give  herself  over  single-mindedly 
to  the  pursuit  of  an  ideal. 

Likewise,  on  Sunday  morning,  Dinny  Noonan,  whose 
task  in  life  is  to  polish  one  of  our  lamp  posts  with  his 
shoulder-blades,  is  late  at  his  post.  He  appears,  heavy 
eyed  and  apathetic,  about  the  time  when  the  churches 
up  the  Avenue  begin  to  send  down  to  us  their  ringing 
blessings  of  peace  and  promise.  He  takes  up  his  labours 
with  a  self-commiserative  air,  as  if  this  polishing  lamp 
posts  seven  days  a  week  wasn't  all  that  some  people 

107 


108  Joey  the  Dreamer 

might  imagine.  By  the  time  he  has  got  himself  into 
his  regular  attitude,  chin  on  his  chest,  legs  crossed  at  the 
knee,  hands  deep  in  the  pockets,  some  neighbour  steps 
yawning  out  of  a  doorway,  invites  Dinny  down  to  the 
corner  for  a  morning  drink,  and  all  his  labour  of  posing 
has  gone  for  naught. 

These  things  I  caught  as  I  looked  out  of  my  window 
this  fine  morning.  It  was  early,  and  Clay  Court  does 
not  rise  early  on  Sabbath  morn.  The  scene  was  barren 
save  for  Dinny  and  the  girl  with  the  hair. 

Later  a  few  stragglers  begin  to  show  themselves  at 
windows,  in  doorways,  and  on  the  walk,  their  appearance 
speaking  eloquently  of  how  the  previous  evening  was 
spent.  Everybody  is  sleepy,  and  shows  it,  and  here  and 
there  one  already  hears  a  quarrel  in  the  process  of  warm- 
ing up  after  Saturday  night.  The  proper  costume  is 
trousers  and  undershirts,  and  wrappers  and  uncombed 
hair,  while  the  proper  thing  to  do  for  the  while  being  is 
to  lean  dully  out  of  the  window  and  say:  "Going  to  be 
another  hot  one  to-day."  Children  begin  to  come  out 
and  cross  the  street  to  the  grocery  and  markets.  But 
there  is  no  noise.  It  is  so  still  that  the  music  of  the 
bells  up  Avenue  has  the  world  to  itself. 

Wonderful  bells!  Like  great,  golden- tongued  voices 
they  speak  out  upon  the  quiet,  Sabbath  morn,  softly 
calling  the  faithful  to  worship,  gently  reminding  the 
unregenerate  that  such  a  thing  as  worship  exists.  Like 
the  voice  of  a  spirit  they  spread  their  poetry  upon  the 
scene;  they  seek  the  dark  stairways  and  float  in  and  up 
into  the  grimy  rooms;  they  breathe  into  the  ears  of  all, 


Joey  the  Dreamer  109 

willing  and  unwilling;  they  bring  their  message  to  all 
hearts.  We  pause.  We  listen.  We  puzzle  about  the 
message.  Then  we  go  on  our  way  to  Mr.  Mehaffey's  or 
Mr.  Sodders's  and  we  ponder  as  we  go  on  how  much 
the  bells  must  cost  and  what  might  be  bought  with  the 
price  of  them. 

Sabbath  morning.  There  is  peace.  The  bells  are 
noble.  But  the  best  they  can  do  is  to  make  us  think  of 
what  might  have  been. 

This  Sunday  morning  however,  was  different.  Even 
from  the  height  of  my  wonderful  window  the  sense  of  some- 
thing new  was  obvious.  A  quiet  word  had  gone  around 
after  Rinehart's  meeting  Saturday  night,  and  men  began 
to  appear  on  the  walks  at  a  time  when  normally  the  lees 
of  the  night  before  would  have  been  the  rule.  These 
men  had  an  aim  in  their  unwonted  Sunday  morn  activity, 
and  their  steps  led  them  into  strange  ways. 

In  the  Tenement  there  was  just  one  room  which  had 
been  declared  unfit  for  human  habitation  even  in  this 
quarter,  and  it  was  in  the  rear  of  the  basement.  In  build- 
ing the  Tenement  some  one  had  skimped  his  work  on  the 
rear  wall  of  the  foundation  so  that  now,  with  the  orignal 
crevices  growing  wider  and  longer  with  the  years,  the 
wall  was  not  much  more  than  a  sieve,  holding  back  the 
rank,  wet  dirt  of  the  alley,  but  letting  the  water  seep 
through  in  dripping,  stinking  streams.  Therefore  it  was 
but  rarely  that  the  landlord  was  fortunate  enough  to  find 
anybody  unfortunate  enough  to  be  willing  to  accept  this 
rear  basement  room  as  a  place  to  live  in. 

It  was  empty  now,  and,  the  season  being  dry,  the 


110  Joey  the  Dreamer 

water  had  sunk  beneath  the  rotting  boards  where  it  still 
lay,  a  black,  oily  pool  covered  with  green  —  that  squirted 
up  between  cracks  under  pressure  of  a  heavy  foot.  The 
rats  rejoiced  in  this  room  when  it  was  dry.  The  light  of 
day  had  not  shone  on  it  from  the  day  of  its  construction. 
Yet  on  one  of  the  walls,  with  a  wire  around  his  neck, 
hung  a  rusty  tin  soldier.  But  the  child  who  had  played 
with  the  soldier  was  gone. 

To  this  room,  from  the  freshness  and  peace  of  a  fine 
Sunday  morning,  men  came  one  by  one  to  the  number  of 
twenty.  Their  mode  of  entry  was  like  that  of  men  who 
do  not  court  observation.  A  man  would  stand  on  the  walk 
near  the  basement  entrance,  looking  up  and  down  the 
street,  apparently  with  a  whole  forenoon  before  him  in 
which  to  do  nothing.  Then  suddenly  he  would  dis- 
appear, and  the  next  moment  would  find  him  knocking 
at  the  door  below.  The  door  opened,  and  closed  behind 
him,  and  a  voice  in  the  darkness  called  gruffly: 

"Hello,  brother." 

"H'lo.     Many  here  yet?" 

"Most  of  'em.     Rinehart  hasn't  come,  though." 

"He'll  come  at  ten,  won't  he?" 

"Ten,  sharp." 

"Be  something  doing  to-day,  eh?" 

"Wait  for  Rinehart." 

A  dark  passage  way  ran  back  to  the  room  at  the  rear. 
Here  was  another  door,  standing  half  open  for  the  time 
being,  and,  in  the  room,  a  group  of  men.  Two  oil  lamps 
served  for  light,  but  the  gloom  of  the  place  was  too  dense, 
too  complete,  for  any  light  to  make  a  great  impression. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  111 

The  white  faces  level  with  the  lights,  shone  out  like  heads 
suspended  in  the  air.  Boxes  and  beer  kegs  served  for 
seats,  and  near  one  of  the  lamps  a  keg  of  that  size  tech- 
nically known  as  a  half-barrel  was  reserved  as  a  stand  for 
the  speaker.  The  odour  of  stale  beer  mingled  with  the 
mouldiness. 

The  men  spoke  in  whispers;  the  water  dripped,  plunk, 
plunk,  plunk,  from  the  pipes  along  the  roof.  But  the 
sense  of  tension  was  fresh  and  alive. 

At  ten  sharp  came  Rinehart,  with  his  hat  down  over 
his  eyes.  The  door  was  closed  behind  him  and  a  bolt  shot 
home.  The  crowd  grew  still.  Only  the  water  dripped, 
plunk,  plunk,  plunk.  Rinehart  turned  the  lamps  up 
until  they  smoked,  and  without  a  word  sprang  upon  his 
keg,  looked  around,  rubbed  his  hands,  and  began: 

"I  promised  you  a  surprise  and  I'll  make  good.  Some 
of  you  know  about  it,  some  of  you  don't.  Before  I'm 
through  this  morning  you'll  all  know;  and  you'll  all  be 
brothers,  or  be  marked  for  the  cowards  and  suckers  that 
you  are.  Listen:  I'll  tell  you  fellows  a  little  bit  of 
news.  You've  been  too  independent  this  campaign. 
Didn't  know  that,  did  you?  Well,  it's  so.  Been  too 
independent.  Haven't  got  out  and  hip  —  hip  —  hoo- 
rayed  for  the  swell  guys'  candidates.  You've  stayed  at 
home  and  stuck  your  hands  in  your  pockets  and  said, 
'Aw  hell,  what's  the. use?  I  don't  get  anything  out  of  it 
anyhow,'  when  anybody's  told  you  to  get  excited.  You 
haven't  done  that  enough  to  do  you  any  good,  but  just 
enough  to  do  you  a  little  harm.  If  you'd  do  it  enough, 
there'd  been  a  change  in  the  campaign  tune.  But  you've 


Joey  the  Dreamer 

only  done  it  enough  to  be  noticed*  Get  that?  You've 
been  stool-pigeoned  on  and  the  rich  guys  know  about 
your  lack  of  interest.  Too  independent.  So  you're 
going  to  be  taught  a  lesson.  How?  Why  the  way  they 
learn  you  every  four  years  whenever  you  need  pulling 
up.  Wage-cuts.  Lock-outs.  Lay-offs.  That's  it.  Pretty 
soon  you'll  see  in  some  corporation  paper  that, 
owin*  to  the  uncertainty  of  the  election,  the  railroads  are 
laying  off  ten  thousand  men.  And  all  the  big  works  are 
shutting  down  till  they  see  who's  going  to  be  President. 
And  you  poor  devils  who 're  thrown  out  of  work  will 
yank  your  hands  out  of  your  pockets  and  begin  to  hustle 
to  help  elect  the  man  the  rich  guys  want. 

"That  is,  you  used  to  do  it.  You'd  be  doing  it  this 
year,  too,  if  you  wasn't  next.  But  being  as  you  are, 
you're  too  wise,  and  we  ain't  going  to  do  anything  of 
the  sort,  because  we're  going  to  have  a  nice  little  party 
of  OUT  own." 

His  eyes  flashed  over  them  with  a  light  in  which  there 
were  things  that  were  not  good  to  see. 

"Yes;  we're  going  to  have  a  party  of  our  own."  He 
showed  his  teeth  in  what  he  meant  to  be  a  smile.  "  Our 
Little  Surprise  Party,  we'll  call  it  —  a  regular  little 
surprise." 

Another  pause.     He  loved  these  pauses,  did  Rinehart. 

"Brothers,  did  you  ever  see  a  bomb?" 

They  started  guiltily,  as  if  he  had  bared  their  secret 
thoughts. 

"Ah!" 

"Ah!"    echoed    Rinehart.     He    nodded    with    tight, 


Joey  the  Dreamer  113 

smiling  lip?,  anticipating  and  answering  the  obvious 
question  with  that  gesture.  "We  won't  say  anything 
about  it,  brothers,  won't  say  anything  out  loud.  But 
we  understand.  We're  all  next.  It's  all  arranged. 
Don't  worry.  I  won't  say  any  more;  I'm  just " 

"Windy!" 

It  was  shocking.     The  crowd  jumped. 

Mr.  Perkins,  the  sullen  and  forceful  Mr.  Perkins, 
suddenly  raised  his  rumbling  voice  and  interrupted 
Rinehart,  even  as  Rinehart's  disciple  had  interrupted 
Ruth  on  the  night  before. 

"'Windy,'  I  said,"  repeated  Mr.  Perkins.  "You're  a 
bag  of  wind." 

He  was  standing  back  near  the  wet  wall,  lazily  hanging 
on  to  an  overhead  gas-pipe  with  his  hairy  right  hand,  the 
fingers  playing  upon  the  pipe  as  if  anxious  of  gripping 
something  else.  He  was  a  formidable  gentleman  to  look 
at,  and  his  interruption,  coming  like  an  unexpected 
thunder-slap,  was  very  much  akin  to  a  bomb,  such  as 
Rinehart  was  talking  about.  He  grinned  with  great 
contempt  at  Rinehart's  consternation,  and  Rinehart, 
shocked  out  of  glib  speech,  stared  severely  at  the  villain, 
trying  to  put  him  to  flight.  Mr.  Perkins,  however, 
refused  to  flee  in  the  least.  He  laughed  instead.  Never, 
never  had  Rinehart  been  treated  thus! 

"What's  your  idea,  brother?"  he  snapped  finally. 

"Brother,  your  eye!"  roared  Perkins.  "If  you  was  a 
brother  of  mine  I'd  be  ashamed  of  my  mother.  Windy 
was  what  I  said.  D'you  get  it  now?  You're  a 
of  wind." 


114  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"I  am,  am  I?" 

"I  said  you  was." 

"Well,  you're  pretty  — "Rinehart  prepared  to 
launch  forth  into  scathing  denunciation,  but  a  sneaking 
glance  around  at  his  audience  prompted  him  to  pause. 
It  was  not  to  be  all  Rinehart  this  morning.  He  saw 
it  in  the  eyes  of  his  followers.  Perkins  with  his  rude, 
unsympathetic  remark  had  broken  the  spell. 

"Well,  what  do  you  mean?  What'd  you  say  it  for, 
brother?" 

"Don't  you  call  me  'brother.' '  Perkins  let  go  of  the 
gas-pipe.  "Don't  you  call  me  that."  He  scowled 
around  like  a  man  who  is  looking  for  trouble,  which  prob- 
ably was  just  the  case.  All  night  long  Perkins  had 
sat  in  the  little  bedroom  of  his  two-room  flat  with  a 
stinking  kerosene  lamp  at  his  elbow.  The  baby  lying  in 
be^l  beside  the  prostrate  mother  wailed  at  intervals. 
Perkins  rose  wearily  and  gave  it  medicine  from  a  bottle, 
medicine  which  the  doctor  had  confessed  would  do  it  no 
good,  but  would  "stop  its  crying."  In  the  morning 
Ruth  came  down  and  took  his  place.  And  without 
sleeping  or  eating  he  had  come  from  the  bedroom  down 
into  the  basement  for  his  first  "secret  meeting." 

"Don't  call  me  'brother,'  "  he  growled,  turning  to 
Rinehart.  "I'm  no  kin  of  yours;  I  ain't  even  of  the 
same  race.  I'm  an  American  of  the  old-fashioned  kind, 
and  —  God  knows  what  you  may  be;  I  don't." 

He  spat  toward  the  keg  on  which  Rinehart  stood. 

"You're  full  of  wind,  I  said.  You  get  up  here  and 
shoot  off  your  mouth;  and  if  it  came  down  to  cases  and 


Joey  the  Dreamer  115 

there  was  any  chance  of  getting  a  copper's  bullet  through 
your  head,  you'd  be  hiding  back  in  some  alley,  waiting 
for  the  thing  to  blow  over  and  give  you  another  chance 
to  talk.  Yes,  you  would  —  Hold  on,  now!"  His  right 
arm  flew  out  in  a  vicious  gesture  as  Rinehart  would  have 
interrupted.  "Listen  to  me.  I've  made  up  my  mind 
that  I  got  something  to  say  to  you,  and  you  listen  to  it, 
and  take  it  in  and  think  it  over,  'cause  it'll  do  your  dirty 
black  heart  a  lot  of  good." 

His  voice  filled  the  room.  And  now  a  careful  observer 
might  have  noticed  this  —  that  his  voice  was  not  made 
for  speech  in  such  places  as  this.  It  was  too  big,  too  free. 
Rinehart,  he  was  made  for  this  work,  to  hide  and  half- 
whisper  in  basement  meeting  places;  but  Perkins  came 
of  another  breed,  the  light-haired  breed  which  has  talked 
when,  where,  and  how  it  pleased,  though  the  head  goes 
off  the  shoulders  for  it.  He  was  defying  Rinehart, 
bullying  him.  The  crowd  saw  it.  He  was  defying  them, 
too;  but  they  let  him  go  on. 

"I'm  an  American,"  said  Perkins,  "a  good  American; 
an'  that's  come  to  be  a  hell  of  a  name  to  call  a  fellow  in 
these  days.  Don't  think  for  a  minute  that  you're 
list'ning  to  one  of  your  kind,  Rinehart,  when  you're 
list'ning  to  me.  My  daddy  was  helping  Lincoln 
lick " 

"Yah!     Lincoln!     What  would  Lincoln  say " 

"Shut  up;  you  ain't  fit  to  call  him  byname.  Shut 
up,  I  tell  ye.  I  got  somethin'  to  say  an'  you  got  to 
hear  'em. 

"I'm  a  good  American,  too  damn  good  an  American. 


116  Joey  the  Dreamer 

I  was  born  an'  raised  in  a  house  where  we  used  to  think 
of  church  an'  the  flag  in  about  the  same  way  —  only 
more  so.  I've  seen  dad  fight  an'  I've  fought,  'cause 
some  one  slurred  th'  flag;  an'  he  nor  me  never  did  that 
for  any  church.  He  used  to  baste  the  waddin'  out  of 
me  if  I  didn't  know  my  piece  Decoration  Day.  You 
don't  understand  that.  That's  a  kind  of  American  you 
don't  know,  an'  couldn't  be. 

"Well,  I  was  going  to  say:  I  got  next.  I  went  up 
against  the  game  that  my  dearly  b'lov-ed  land  of  the 
free  hands  out  to  its  people.  It  ga'me  a  jar.  I  knew  it 
couldn't  be  so  —  not  here  in  these  United  States.  'By 
God,'  I  sez  to  myself  first  time  I  had  to  work  for  pay 
below  decent  living  wages,  'there's  something  wrong 
here,'  sez  I,  'n  I  hollered  about  it.  Told  'um  I  couldn't 
raise  my  kids  decent  on  what  they  wuz  giving  me. 
'Go  to  hell,  then,'  sez  they.  I  went.  I  been  there 
ever  since. 

"But  I'm  a  good  American,  don't  you  forget  that; 
an'  that's  just  why  I'm  in  this  game  with  you  fellows, 
because  I  am  such  a  good  American.  I  think  too  much 
of  this  country,  my  daddy's  country,  an'  my  granddad's, 
an'  wife's  an'  my  kids,'  to  keep  out  of  it.  It's  a  good 
country ,but  it's  got  to  be  kicked  in  the  face  an'  waked  up. 
It's  all  right  naturally  but  it's  gone  all  wrong.  Like  a 
girl  gone  tuh  the  bad.  It's  letting  money  do  what  it 
wants  tuh  with  it.  By  the  Almighty,  when  I  think  o' 
what  this  country  was  —  what  I  was  told  it  was,  as  a 
kid  —  Liberty,  Star-spangled  Banner,  hats  off  to  the 
Flag;  an'  what  it's  done  an'  what  it's  made  people  do  for 


Joey  the  Dreamer  117 

it,  an'  then  think  of  what  it  is  now,  I  see  red'n  want  tuh 
run  right  into  the  middle  of  it  an'  hit  some  one  an'  say, 
'Wake  up  here  an'  see  what  these  United  States  are 
getting  to  be!'" 

They  cheered  his  viciousness  here;  but  by  his  words  he 
had  placed  himself  alone. 

"Yessir,  that's  what  I  feel  like;  an*  that's  what's  got 
to  be  done.  Don't  think  I'm  in  with  you  guys  who  take 
a  shot  at  a  President  an'  throw  bombs.  I  ain't.  You 
don't  care  for  this  country.  You'd  as  soon  see  it  go  smash 
as  not,  I  know.  But  I  do  care  for  it.  Why,  I'm  as  good 
an  American  as  the  President  himself,  'n'  I'd  get  up'n 
help  hang  bomb  tossers  just  as  quick  as  he  would  or 
any  one  else.  An'  I'd  help  tie  a  can  to  you  fellows,  if 
ever  come  to  that.  Because,  in  spite  of  the  shame  of  it, 
I'm  a  good  American." 

The  fire  in  his  eyes  held  them  bound,  and  the  wicked 
hang  of  his  big  shoulders,  the  swing  of  his  long  arms,  and 
the  great  heavy  hands  at  the  end  of  them,  arms  and  hands 
that  could  become  in  the  wink  of  an  eyelid  machinery  to 
launch  a  blow  that  would  crush  a  man's  face  in,  silenced 
the  few  tongues  that  might  have  sought  to  break 
the  spell. 

"An'  I'm  going  to  do  my  best  to  help  my  country  like 
my  granddad  and  my  daddy  before  me,  an'  the  best  I 
can  do  is  to  help  you  raise  hell.  This  country's  decent 
mostly.  Oh,  yes,  it  is!  Don't  tell  me!  I  know  some- 
thing about  it  —  something  about  it  outside  of  city  hells 
like  this  —  an'  you  don't.  It's  all  right;  but  the  decent 
part's  asleep.  It's  let  the  raw  deal  get  the  start  of  it. 


118  Joey  the  Dreamef 

When  it  suddenly  discovers  that  its  free'n  equal  citizens, 
and  good  Americans  to  boot,  are  getting  such  a  raw  deal 
at  the  hands  of  Industry  that  they're  wild  enough  to 
fight  because  they're  out  of  work  and  food,  it'll  wake  up 
like  it  did  in  '61  —  and  a  first-class  house  cleaning  will  be 
the  first  act  on  a  new  programme.  That's  why  I'm  with 
you,  because  I'm  a  good  American;  'n'  if  you  don't  like 
it  you  can  go  plumb  to  hell.'* 

"You  are  a  man,  brother!"  cried  Rinehart.  He  was 
quick  to  turn  defeat  into  victory,  was  Rinehart. 

The  giant  nodded  grimly. 

"Take  it  or  leave  it;  suit  yourself, "he  muttered  sullenly. 

"Do  you  hear?"  continued  Rinehart,  to  the  others, 
ignoring  the  giant's  defiance.  "It  is  the  time.  The 
hour  is  ripe.  It  must  be  done!" 

"What?"  snapped  Perkins. 

Rinehart  went  on  as  if  he  had  not  heard:  "The 
appointed  hour  has  arrived.  We'll  give  'em  a  surprise. 
Yes,  brothers,  they'll  remember  this  election  because 
our  Little  Surprise  Party  took  a  hand." 

Perkins  turned  away.  Shouldering  his  neighbour 
out  of  his  path,  he  went  straight  to  the  door,  jerked  it 
open  with  unnecessary  violence,  and  strode  out  of  the 
room,  through  the  dark  passage  to  the  front,  up  the 
stairs,  and  into  the  open  air. 

On  the  walk  he  stopped  and  bared  his  head  to  the 
slight  breeze.  The  church  bells  were  ringing  again, 
ringing  softly,  and  Perkins,  his  long  arms  hanging  list- 
lessly at  his  sides,  his  head  on  one  side,  stood  for  a  moment 
bareheaded  and  listened  to  the  sweet-toned  message  of 


Joey  the  Dreamer  119 

Peace,  Peace,  Peace,  Peace.  There  were  many  bells. 
And  it  was  very  still. 

Perkins  listened,  perhaps,  for  half  a  minute.  Then  he 
laughed  in  a  way  that  was  a  curse,  put  on  his  cap  and  made 
straight  for  Mehaffey's  saloon. 

"What  the—!  You  drinking?"  quoth  the  bar- 
tender. "I  thought  you'd  been  to  church." 

"Sure,"  said  Perkins,  throwing  his  money  on  the  bar. 
"And  the  sermon  beat  whiskey  all  hollow." 


CHAPTER  XII 

SO  CLAY  COURT  opened  its  Sabbath,  and  as  it 
rained  for  awhile  near  noon  the  rest  of  the  day 
was  spent  in-doors. 

Clay  Court  usually  does  spend  its  Sunday  in-doors. 
There  are  parks,  it  is  true,  in  the  city,  and  on  its  out- 
skirts open  spaces  galore.  But  that  takes  car-fare. 
Clay  Court  has  other  uses  for  its  car-fare  than  to  fly  out 
for  a  breath  of  air  on  Sunday,  and,  beside,  Clay  Court 
knows  nothing  about  flying. 

It  knows  that  on  Sunday  it  may  stay  in  its  cage;  that 
the  streets  are  purgatory;  the  homes  hell;  and  that  there 
is  one  sure,  swift,  easy  way  to  escape  from  all  the  torture. 
Clay  Court  sits  in  the  kitchen  and  drinks  beer  out  of  the 
can.  By  three  in  the  afternoon  it  is  full  in  the  crop,  if 
it  is  lucky.  By  seven  this  condition  has  mounted  to  the 
head,  though  this  also  is  dependent  upon  the  whim  of 
Fortune,  which  controls  small  change.  At  nine  the 
quarrelling  begins;  by  midnight  the  worst  has  been  told; 
and  on  Monday  morning  many  of  the  bread-winners  are 
late  to  work,  and  the  Sabbath  has  left  wreckage  rather 
than  rest  behind  it.  All  this  is  as  natural  as  the  conduct 
of  the  cave  dweller  who  huddled  in  his  unsanitary  cave 
and  stared  at  the  fire  for  recreation. 

There  always  is  considerable  excitement.  Drinking 

120 


Joey  the  Dreamer  121 

flat  beer  on  under-nourished  stomachs  is  not  good  for 
the  heart  or  brains  of  man  or  woman.  Wherefore  it  is 
on  Sunday  that  the  Terrible  Things  happen  in  Clay  Court: 
the  patrol  wagons  come  clanging  down  the  Avenue;  head 
lines  rise  in  the  Monday  papers;  and  comfortable  cit- 
izens throw  up  their  hands  and  cry,  "Oh,  the  utterly 
uncivilized  brutes!"  Really,  there  is  nothing  quite  so 
illuminative  as  a  week  spent  in  Clay  Court  during  the 
hot  weather. 

Mrs.  and  Mr.  Bruggers,  the  worthy  parents  of  our 
little  Joey,  did  much  as  their  neighbours  did,  so  long  as 
their  money  lasted.  This  Sabbath,  Mrs.  Bruggers 
awakening  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  and  sleepily 
and  with  befuddled  senses  gazing  around  her  to  ascertain 
the  exact  location  of  her  whereabouts,  gradually  dis- 
covered that  she  was  not  in  bed,  and  being  both 
amazed  and  angered  by  the  discovery,  resorted  to  her 
usual  procedure  when  so  moved.  She  called  loudly 
"  Bruggers ! " 

Mr.  Bruggers,  being,  as  if  it  were,  still  heavily  weighted 
down  with  the  previous  evening's  dissipation,  was  at 
first  unable  to  reply.  But  at  the  second  and  fiercer  call, 
and  after  some  squirming  he  managed  to  respond  in  a 
muffled  voice:  "My  love?" 

"Where  are  you?"  demanded  Mrs.  Bruggers,  in- 
dignantly. "Why  don't  you  show  yourself?" 

The  reason  for  this  was  of  course  the  simple  one  that 
Bruggers  was  lying  face  down  under  the  wife  of  his 
bosom. 

Mr.    Bruggers   squirmed   some   more.    Then   as   his 


122  Joey  the  Dreamer 

senses  grew  clearer  his  condition  became  more  and  more 
apparent  to  him,  and  after  awhile  he  realized  his  situation. 

"My  love —  "  he  began  timidly. 

"Well?"  Mrs.  Bruggers's  voice  was  growing  clearer, 
and  fiercer. 

"If  you'll  pardon  me,  my  love " 

"Well?" 

"I  believe " 

"What  do  you  believe?    Where  are  you?" 

"I  believe  —  I  believe,  my  love,  that  I'm  under  you!" 

Here  Mrs.  Bruggers  suddenly  rolled  herself  to  one  side, 
and  Bruggers,  a  very  dilapidated  Bruggers,  slowly  drew 
a  long  noisy  breath  and  said:  "Ah!" 

"Bruggers!"  The  female  master  of  the  house  was 
sitting  up  and  viewing  her  weaker  half  with  an  unsteady 
but  significant  stare. 

"My  love ?" 

"What  were  you  doing  there?" 

"I  —  I  —  sleeping,  I  think,  my  love." 

Mrs.  Bruggers,  preparing  to  launch  into  a  terrible 
tirade,  discovered  that  her  tongue  was  hopelessly  dry. 

"Bruggers,"  she  hissed,  handing  him  a  quarter.  "Go 
out  and  get  a  half -pint;  and  if  you  so  much  as  smell  of  it 
before  you  get  back  I'll  skin  you  alive.  You  hear?" 

By  one  o'clock  the  precious  pair  were  nearing  the  stage 
they  so  much  desired,  and  Joey  breakfasted  on  the  scraps 
left  over  from  last  night.  At  two  came  some  company, 
a  frizzled  Mrs.  Rambo,  widow,  and  a  frowzy  Mr.  Dolan, 
widower.  Mrs.  Bruggers  greeted  them  mightily. 

"Mrs.  Rambo!    How  are  you?" 


Joey  the  Dreamef  123 

"Sick,'*  said  Mrs.  Rambo.  "I'm  never  well  any 
more  —  not  since  I  got  that  pantomine  poison  from  them 
sardines  Mr.  Dolan  brung  me." 

"They  was  good  sardines,"  said  Mr.  Dolan,  sitting 
down  firmly.  "They  was  good  sardines." 

"You  can  say  that,"  said  the  widow  significantly. 
"They  didn't  poison  you." 

"You  et  'em  all,"  said  Mr.  Dolan.  "I  didn't 
get  none." 

"Well  you  brung  'em  for  me,  didn't  you?" 

"I  did,  and  you  et  'em,  too." 

"And  paid  for  it  ever  since  —  Well,  ah,  well,  a  delicate 
person  must  be  careful;  eh,  Mrs.  Bruggers?  They  can't 
stand  what  some  can,  can  they?" 

"Say  not,"  said  Mrs.  Bruggers.  "Now,  me;  to  look 
at  me  you'd  never  think  how  delicate  I  am " 

"Bruggers!"  said  Mr.  Dolan,  suddenly.  "Got  a 
can?" 

"Why  — yes." 

"A  can  for  beer?" 

"Sure." 

"Bruggers!"     It  was  Mrs.  Bruggers  who  spoke  now. 

"My   love?" 

"Go  —  go  at  once,  yourself.  Can't  you  see  poor  Mrs. 
Rambo  is  starving  for  a  little  drink?  Hurry  now." 

And  poor  Bruggers  hurried  enthusiastically  away,  his 
"Yes,  my  love,"  coming  back  to  them  jerkily,  as  if 
shaken  from  a  bottle,  as  he  clattered  out  of  the  door. 

"It's  a  blessed  hot  rain;  but  I  held  my  hat  over  the 
can,"  said  he  when  he  returned. 


124  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Bully  boy!"  said  Mr.  Dolan,  reaching  for  the  can. 
"Bully  boy!" 

Half  an  hour  rolled  away,  and  with  it  several  cans. 
Mr.  Dolan  slipped  his  arm  around  Mrs.  Rambo,  and  the 
lady  giggled  with  becoming  modesty.  Even  Mrs. 
Bruggers  melted  toward  Bruggers. 

"Bruggers,"   she  said  amiably,   "sing  um  a  song." 

"My  love!"  protested  Bruggers  with  true  artistic 
reluctance. 

"Sing  um  that  old  one,  about  the  preacher's  wife," 
commanded  Mrs.  Bruggers. 

"But,  my  love,  my  voice!" 

"Go  on!"  roared  Dolan,  whereupon  Bruggers,  looking 
at  the  ceiling  with  an  expression  of  infinite  shrewdness, 
and  beating  time  with  his  glass,  began  in  his  high, 
cackling  voice: 

"Come,  all  ye  lads  and  lassies,  and  listen  to  my  song, 

If  you'll  pay  good  attention  it  won't  be  very  long. 

It's  about  an  adventure,  something  that  did  befall" 

The  young  and  handsome  helpmeet  of  old  Reverend  McCall." 

"Hooray!  Bully  boy!"  cried  Mr.  Dolan,  slapping  his 
neighbour's  ample  back,  and  Joey  could  bear  no  more.  He 
was  sick  at  heart  and  ashamed,  too  bitterly  ashamed  to 
remain  and  witness  the  further  degradation  of  his  parents. 
He  was  choking.  He  wanted  to  cry  out  and  beg  them  to 
stop,  to  think  what  a  spectacle  they  were  making 
of  themselves;  but  he  had  done  so  once  and  the  memory 
of  the  beating  he  had  received  for  being  "better  than 
your  own  parents"  was  with  him  still.  He  went  out  into 


Joey  the  Dreamer  125 

the  hall,  clinched  his  little  fists,  and  kept  the  tears  from 
coming.  How  he  longed  for  a  chance  to  talk  with  Ruth 
then !  She  would  have  talked  of  the  things  he  wished  to 
hear.  He  could  have  told  her  how  what  was  going  on  in 
the  room  had  hurt  him,  and  she  could  have  told  him  why. 
But  the  Perkins  baby  was  worse,  and  Ruth  was 
busy,  caring  for  the  infant,  and  for  the  fear-mad- 
dened mother.  Then  Joey  thought  of  Old  Mag  on  the 
floor  above. 

"I'll  go  see  Mag,"  he  said  to  himself.     "She    knows 
Miss  Ruth,  and  she's  sick  so  she  can't  be  jagged. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

OLD  Mag  was  the  woman  whom  the  superinten- 
dent had  thrown  out  of  the  finishing-room  of  the 
Factory  a  few  days  before.  She  wasn't  old  in 
years  —  a  little  over  thirty  —  but  she  was  a  discard, 
nevertheless.  What  would  have  become  of  her  but  for 
Ruth  is  a  problem  altogether  too  unpleasant  to  consider 
here;  but  at  all  events,  Ruth  had  taken  her  under  her 
sheltering  wing,  and  Mag,  to  substantiate  the  super- 
intendent's eagle-eyed  judgment—  "You  ain't  fit  for 
anything  but  to  be  in  bed,  and  here  you're  trying  to  draw 
wages  on  us!"  —  promptly  gave  way  to  the  malady  that 
was  robbing  her  of  her  strength  and  went  to  bed. 

"I'll  be  up  in  a  couple  of  days,"  she  said,  confidently. 
"It's  just  a  spell.  I'll  be  hunting  another  job  in  a 
day  or  two." 

But  the  days  came  and  went,  and  still  she  lay  there. 
The  doctor  likewise  had  come  and  gone,  and  after  his 
departure  Ruth  had  consecrated  herself  to  a  consistent 
programme  of  deceit.  When  she  was  in  the  room  Old 
Mag  grew  strong;  when  she  went  away  the  poor  old  face 
on  the  pillows  seemed  to  shrivel  even  smaller,  and  the 
eyes  were  dead  and  without  hope. 

Under  Ruth's  regime  the  room  was  remarkable  for  the 
fact  that  it  was  clean.  On  the  little  table  there  always 

126 


Joey  the  Dreamer  127 

managed  to  be  a  flower  or  two,  and  upon  them  Old  Mag 
divided  the  long,  lonely  hours  when  Ruth  must  be  away. 
It  was  almost  quiet,  too,  that  room,  for  it  seemed  that 
the  noises  from  the  Tenement  and  the  street,  instead  of 
rolling  harshly  through  the  screens,  halted  at  the  windows 
and  remained  outside,  or,  at  the  worst,  came  in  on  tip- 
toes, like  bad  boys  abashed  in  a  gentle  atmosphere.  The 
regular  tenement  odour  had  vanished  in  the  face  of  per- 
fect cleanliness;  and  here  Old  Mag  lay  at  peace,  a  tiny 
patch  of  untroubled  backwater  slipped  into  a  turbulent, 
muddy  torrent. 

Joey  didn't  knock.  He  pushed  the  door  open  a  little 
and  peeped  in. 

"H'lo,  Mag." 

"H'lo,  Joey." 

"Care'f  I  come  in?" 

"I  should  say  not.     Come  on  in.     How's  everything?" 

Joey  came  in  and  closed  the  door.  "How  you  feeling, 
Mag?" 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right.     How  you?" 

"All  right." 

"I  heard  you  wuz  sick." 

"Naw."     Joey  shook  his  head  stubbornly.     "Naw." 

"Too  bad  it  rained,  ain't  it?"  volunteered  Mag. 
"  Spoiled  yer  Sunday.  Ye'ver  notice  how  it  always  rains 
Sundays?" 

"Naw.     Does  it?"  asked  Joey,  greatly  interested. 

"Seems  like  to  me't  does." 

"Huh!"     Joey  sat  down.     "That  ain't  fair." 

"What  ain't  fair?" 


128  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Raining  Sundays." 

"Oh!" 

"What  makes  it  rain  Sundays,  Mag?" 

"Ha,  ha!     'Cause  that's  yer  day  off." 

Joey  sat  silent,  his  great  eyes  growing  greater  as  he 
pondered  this  last  answer.  It  was  too  deep  for  him. 

"But't  hadn't  oughto." 

"No.  Lot's  o*  things  hadn't  oughto.  They  do  jes* 
the  same.  You  have  to  stay  in  the  house  when  it  rams, 
too." 

"Sure."  Joey  pondered  some  more.  "Who  makes 
it  ram  Sundays." 

"I  don't  know,  Joey.  God  makes  it  rain  —  he  makes 
it  rain  Sundays." 

"Naw!"  Joey's  protest  was  as  eager  as  it  was  sharp. 
"God  don't  do  it.  He  wouldn't  do  anything  like  that. 
You  ask  Miss  Ruth;  she'll  tell  you." 

Joey  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the  chair,  his  eagerness 
almost  carrying  him  off  on  the  floor. 

"She  says  He's  got  a  soft  spot  for  us  guys  who  work 
all  week,  and  He  wouldn't  spoil  our  only  day  off.  He 
shoots  the  rain  on  week-days,  but  nix  on  Sunday. 
On — "  Joey  paused,  and  broke  out  shrewdly,  "Say, 
Mag,  God  lays  off  Sundays  like  the  rest  of  us.  Sure, 
He  can't  be  working  all  the  time,  either.  That's  how  it 
come  to  rain  to-day.  God  ain't  there,  and  the  other 
fellow  puts  the  day  on  the  bum.  Ain't  I  right,  Mag? 

"Why  —  why,  I  don't  know,  Joey,"  said^Magy 
bewildered.  "Mebbe,  Joey,  mebbe." 

"  Why,  sure.    Sure."    He  wagged  his  head  confidently. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  129 

"Sure.  He  wouldn't  put  the  day  on  the  bum  for  us. 
Should  say  not." 

He  sat  silent  for  awhile,  and  Mag,  too  startled  to 
follow  his  line  of  reasoning,  lay  and  stared  at  him  with 
never  a  word.  Joey's  elbows  came  up  on  his  knees,  and 
the  little  chin  dropped  into  the  weary  hands. 

"Mag,"  he  said  suddenly,  not  looking  up. 

"Hah?" 

"Y'ever  get  jagged?" 

"Hah?" 

"Like  ma?" 

"Should  say  not." 

"Why  does  ma  get  jagged,  Mag?" 

"Why  —  why,  I  dunno,  Joey.  Some  folks  does; 
some  doesn't." 

"Well,  why  don't  you?" 

Mag  raised  herself  on  an  elbow  and  almost  sat  up  in 
bed  at  this.  She  stared  at  Joey  for  a  full  minute,  stared 
at  him  with  the  blank  eyes  of  one  to  whom  has  been 
propounded  a  line  of  thought  so  new,  so  original,  so 
startling,  as  to  overthrow  the  mental  habits  of  a  lifetime. 
Then  she  dropped  back. 

"Joey,  not  saying  a  word  against  your  ma,  I  must  say 
that  I  never  was  that  kind  of  a  girl." 

Mag's  thin  lips  closed  with  a  snap,  and  there  was 
silence.  Joey  hitched  around  on  his  chair,  the  puckering 
of  his  little  old  brow  betraying  his  nervousness. 

"Well  —  why  is  ma,  Mag?"  he  burst  out  in  agony. 
"Hah?" 

Old  Mag  relaxed  into  a  gay  little  titter.     "Goodness 


130  Joey  the  Dreamer 

knows,  Joey.  Some  folks  is;  some  isn't.  But  most  is, 
1  guess;  most  is." 

"A  wonder,"  groaned  Joey,  "she  won't  be  good." 

"  Good?  Why,  sakes,  kid,  you  don't  want  to  go  saying 
your  ma  ain't  good!" 

"She  ain't,  she  ain't,  she  ain't!  "  cried  Joey,  the  agony 
of  his  tormented  young  soul  bursting  forth  in  the  wail. 
"She  ain't  good.  She  ain  t  like  God.  She " 

"Like  God?  Like  God?"  Again  Mag  rose  on  her 
elbow.  "What  —  what  d'you  want?" 

"She's  like  the  rest  of  'em.  They  ain't  nobody  good. 
All  they  wanto  do  is  to  booze,  an'  holler,  an'  fight,  an' 
hate  each  other,  'n  make  me  wisht  I  wuz  dead.  They 
don't  wanta  be  good.  They  don't  care  anything  'bout 
God.  Oh,  I  don't  see  what  fun  they  have  the  way  they 
do  —  An'  then  the  can  an'  the  bottle  takes  most  the 
money  'n  we  don't  get  'nough  to  eat.  And  suppose  they 
was  good.  We'd  all  have  a  cinch,  wouldn't  we?  Ain't 
I  right?" 

"Mebbe,  Joey;  mebbe  you  are.'* 

"Why,  sure.  Did  y'ever  hear  Miss  Ruth  tell  about 
it?  She  was  telling  last  night  —  down't  the  Park.  Says, 
'You  can't  never  be  happy  unless  you're  good.'  Mebbe't 
ain't  so,  too.  Gee!  Look  at  ma  and  pa,  and  everybody 
'round  here;  they  ain't  good  an'  they're  sore  all  the 
time.  An'  Miss  Ruth  is  good,  an'  you  only  got  to  look 
at  her  to  know  how  swell  it  is  !o  be  like  her.  Don't  you 
think  God  looks  something  like  Miss  Ruth,  Mag?" 

"Goodness  sakes,  Joey!    He  ain't  no  woman." 

"I  know,  but  —  "he  stopped  abruptly.    To  explain 


Joey  the  Dreamer  131 

what  was  in  his  heart  was  too  much  for  him.  He  knew 
what  it  was  well  enough,  but  the  words  were  not  his. 
"I  wish  I  knew  something,"  he  said.  "  Mag,  why  don't 
other  folks  be  like  Miss  Ruth?" 

"Goodness,  Joey;  they  can't  many  be  like  her.  She 
ain't  no  common  person,  and  she  wasn't  brung  up  here, 
neither.  She  was  a  swell  young  dame  when  she  was 
a-growing  up,  and  went  to  school  and  all  that." 

"Sure."  There  was  a  brooding  silence.  "Mag,  if 
you'd  been  a  swell  young  dame  when  you  was  growing 
up,  and  had  went  to  school  and  everything,  you'd  be 
like  her,  too,  eh?" 

"Who?     Me?     Shucks!" 

"An'  if  I  was  going  to  school  I  might  know  something, 
an'  I  might  be  good.  Can't  be  good,  now;  don't  know 
how."  He  retreated  sullenly  into  himself.  "I  got  to 
be  like  the  rest,  hain't  I?" 

"You're  a  good  boy,  Joey." 

"I  wanto  be.  Ain't  no  fun  being  bad.  It's  wrong, 
too.  I  get  scared;  I  don't  see  how  folks  dast  be  bad. 
Some  of  'em's  'fraid  o'  the  coppers,  but  I  ain't.  Some- 
thing else  I'm  'fraid  of.  Bigger'n  any  copper." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Dunno.    I  prayed  last  night,  Mag," 

"Did  ye?" 

"Eyah.     But  I  didn't  get  no  satisfaction." 

"Why?" 

"Don't  know  enough.  I  couldn't  see  anything.  Miss 
Ruth  can.  She  knows." 

"Wait  till  you're  older,  Joey;  then  you'll  see." 


132  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Aw —  gee!  Think  so?"  For  an  instant  the  little 
old  face,  lighted  up  with  the  holy  fires  of  hope,  was  young 
and  beautiful  to  see.  Then  the  fire  went  out  like  a  light 
that  is  snuffed,  and  the  oldness  came  back  to  its  own. 
"Naw,  I  won't."  His  voice  was  weary  and  dead.  "I 
won't  see  anything.  I'll  be  like  pa,  or  Dolan,  an'  all 
of  em." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  Joey!  You  won't.  You  can't.  It 
ain't  in  you.  You  won't  grow  up  like  that  any  more'n 
a  —  any  more'n  a  flower'll  grow  up  to  be  a  garbage  box. 
Them  things  is  all  fixed,  Joey.  You  wuz  meant  to  be 
good.  When  you  get  big  you'll  be  swell,  and  you'll 
have  a  bunch  o'  coin,  and  you  won't  chase  the  can  or  hit 
th'  bottle  —  'r  beat  up  yer  wife  —  no,  you  won't,  Joey; 
you  ain't  made  that  way.  An'  you'll  know  a  lot;  I 
can  see  it'n  your  eyes.  Honest,  Joey,  I  b'lieve  you're 
wiser  now'n  most  grown  folks.  Grown  folks  don't 
know  so  much." 

"Gowan,"  said  Joey  bitterly.  "I  don't  know  nothin'. 
An'  I  won't  get  swell  an'  all  that  you  said,  neither.  I 
know  —  But  I  won't  rush  the  can  —  no.  Nix.  Mag, 
I  wish  I  could  make  pitchers." 

"Snap   shots?" 

"Nah.  Like  what  they  have  outside  the  Dime 
Museum.  An'  I  wisht  I  knew  what  God  looked  like. 
Then  I'd  make  a  pitcher  of  Him,  an'  show  it  to  people  — 
to  ev'rybody  —  an'  then  they'd  all  be  good  —  after  they 
see  it.  See?" 

"I  guess  so." 

"Sure  you  do."    He  dropped  his  high-held  head  in  a 


Joey  the  Dreamer  133 

way  more  eloquent  than  any  words  can  be.  "  What's  the 
use?"  The  shrug  of  his  bony  shoulders  was  centuries 
old.  "What  chanct?" 

"Aw,  Joey!  You  hadn't  oughto  say  that.  Why  — 
why  —  you're  young  —  you're  young" 

"I  know,"  grunted  Joey  stubbornly.  "I  know.  I 
prayed,  but  I  didn't  get  no  satisfaction.  That's  the 
give-away." 

"Joey!  You  mustn't  feel  like  that!  Why,  goodness 
sakes,  kid,  you  hain't  had  no  practice  —  what  you  'xpect 
without  no  practice !  Why  —  why  look,  Joey,  Miss 
Ruth's  had  practice  all  her  life.  You  didn't  expect  to 
get  satisfaction  like  her  at  the  very  start  —  did  you?" 

Joey  thought  it  over  for  a  moment.  "That's  so," 
he  agreed.  "Mebbe  it  does  take  practice." 

"  Why,  sure.  Keep  trying.  Keep  —  keep  on  hoping. 
You're  gone  if  you  don't  hope,  Joey;  you  got  hope 
when  you're  young,  'cause  that's  your  chanct.  Why  — 
'You  ain't  got  no  chanct!'  Shame  on  you,  Joey.  Shame 
on  you."  * 

"Aw  —  all  right,"  said  Joey,  brightening  a  little. 
"I'll  try  it  again.  D'you  ever  pray,  Mag?" 

"I'm  old,  Joey.  Say,  now,  don't  forget;  you  gotto 
keep  on  trying.  Remember." 

"D'y'  ever  think  I'll  know  what  He  looks  like?" 

"Well " 

"So  I  c'n  make  the  pitcher,  I  mean?" 

Mag  thought  for  a  long  time.  Rather,  for  a  long  time 
she  searched  for  words  to  express  what  was  in  her  mind. 

"Why,  sure,"  she  said,  finally.     "Sure  you'll  know. 


134  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Some  day  —  you  almost  know  now  —  how  to  make  it. 
The  pitcher,  I  mean." 

Joey  nodded  his  little  old  head.  "Some  day,  p'raps  — 
Mag,  you  don't  know  yourself,  do  you?" 

"I'm  'fraid  not,  Joey." 

"Why  don't  you?    You're  good." 

Mag  smiled  a  wonderful  smile  then,  a  smile  of  such 
patience,  humility,  and  sweetness  as  is  seen  only  on  the 
faces  of  helpless  poor  women.  Oh,  the  heart-tugging 
smiles  on  those  withered  faces !  The  silent  acceptance  of 
every  imposition,  every  cruelty  that  the  world  sees  fit  to 
put  upon  them;  the  tale  of  a  life  of  oppression,  without 
one  ray  of  hope,  one  kindness  from  man,  or  one  sign  from 
God.  And  still  they  smile,  still  they  are  patient.  Surely 
the  angels  are  misnamed.  They  are  not  those  comfortable 
full-bodied  figures  that  trumpet  the  celestial  skies.  If 
angels  there  are,  they  are  the  spirits  of  those  shrivelled 
little  sisters  with  the  starved,  patient  eyes  and  the 
humble  smile  —  the  worked-out,  decent  women  of  the 
poor. 

"It's  hard  to  say  why,  Joey,"  said  Mag,  slowly.  "You 
see  —  some  folks  don't  have  much  chance  to  see  Him. 
Shops  and  basements  and  such  places,  Joey;  not  such 
awful  good  places.  It's  like  there  wasn't  room  for  Him 
there." 

She  was  looking  at  Joey,  but  she  seemed  not  to  see  him 
at  all.  And  Joey  made  no  more  noise  than  a  silent  mouse, 
for  he  saw  that  Mag  felt  like  talking,  and  her  words  went 
straight  to  his  heart. 

"Where  was  there  room  for  Him?"  continued  Mag  in 


Joey  the  Dreamer  135 

a  voice  that  no  longer  was  all  gentle.  "It's  a  cinch  it 
wasn't  in  that  basement  on  Boston  Avenue  where  I  was 
born,  and  where  I  learned  to  hate  my  father  for  beating 
me.  There  wasn't  much  chance  for  anything  fancy  in 
that  way  there.  One  room,  and  that  way  at  the  end  of  the 
hall  in  the  basement;  and  father  making  me  chase  the 
can  when  he  had  money  and  so  drunk  nights  that  I  was 
afraid  to  go  into  the  house.  Where  did  I  sleep?  On  the 
stairs,  going  down,  with  other  kids  and  the  men  who 
were  too  drunk  to  get  up.  Funny  to  think  how  that  was, 
Joey;  and  here  I  am  talking  to  you  about  it,  as  if  I'd  never 
slept  on  stairs  or  run  for  beer  for  my  father.  How  things 
change,  don't  they?  —  Father?  They  took  him  away 
for  beating  mother  too  much.  The  landlord  squealed 
because  ma  was  hollering  too  often;  and  then  ma  and 
I  began  to  sew  —  About  five  I  guess  I  was  then;  and  I 
been  sewing  ever  since.  We  was  on  vests  —  take  'em 
home  —  all  the  time  then.  Sweat  shops  after  that,  and 
there  ain't  much  God  in  a  sweat  shop,  Joey;  only  the 
foreman  —  Why,  I  declare,  I'm  gabbing  your  head 
off,  ain't  I?" 

"Go  on;  tell  me,"  begged  Joey. 

"We  used  to  fool  the  church  people  when  they  come 
around.  Ma  used  to  hide  me:  'No  kids  here.'  Oh, 
she  was  smart,  ma  was,  except  with  pa.  He  could  get 
ahead  of  her  every  time.  'No,  I  ain't  got  a  cent  for  you,' 
she'd  say  —  he  was  boning  her  for  beer  money  all  the 
time.  Then  he'd  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  after  awhile 
she'd  own  up  and  give  him  the  money.  'Course  when  he 
died  it  got  better.  He  died  away  from  home;  we  never 


136  Joey  the  Dreamer 

saw  him  again  after  they  took  him  away  that  time.  And 
we  sewed,  ma  and  me. 

"I  don't  know  how  long  it  was  before  ma  died,  but  she 
was  coughing  the  awfulest  time,  I  remember.  Sweat- 
shop cough.  Lots  of  them  has  it;  but  ma  was  small  and 
weak,  anyhow,  and  she  didn't  last  as  long  as  some.  'Mag,' 
she  used  to  say,  'keep  straight,  but  don't  you  marry  no 
man  that  drinks';  and  I  kept  both  promises.  She  was 
in  bed,  then,  and  I  was  pretty  near  left  alone,  but  I 
kept  my  word. 

"I  wasn't  home  when  she  died.  I  was  at  the  shop  and 
when  I  come  home  there  was  no  light  in  the  room  and  I 
knew  right  away  that  something  was  wrong.  She  was 
the  'fraidest  thing  of  the  dark  you  ever  saw,  ma  was,  and 
she  used  to  have  me  set  the  lamp  right  near  her  bed  on 
a  chair  so  she  could  light  it  when  it  got  dark,  even  if  she 
couldn't  get  up.  But  this  night  it  wasn't  lit.  And  I 
went  in  and  I  says  —  remember  it  plain's  if  it  was 
yesterday  —  'Hello,  ma,'  I  says,  and  she  didn't  answer. 
'Hello,  ma,'  again.  Then  I  run  over  to  the  bed  and 
grabbed  her  hand,  and  it  was  so  cold  it  froze  me  —  Then 
I  lit  the  lamp  myself,  and  ma  was  dead,  and  she  had  a 
match  in  her  hand,  all  ready  to  light  the  lamp  —  I  can 
remember  it  plain's  if  it  was  yesterday.  Ah,  Joey,  run 
along,  'cause  I  see  you  want  to  go.  'Tain't  no  fun 
listening  to  old  women's  gabbing." 

But  Joey  sat  as  if  hypnotized  in  the  chair.  "And  so 
you  never  saw  Him?"  he  broke  out. 

"No,   no." 

"Never?" 


Joey  the  Dreamer  137 

"No."  Mag's  lips  trembled  a  little.  "You  see,  I 
kept  on  sewing  until  I  heard  I  could  get  more  money  over 
to  the  Factory.  Then  I  went  there.  Don't  know  how 
long,  but  it  was  a  long  time.  And  then  I  got  sick." 
A  pitiful  attempt  at  a  smile  framed  itself  upon  Mag's 
lips.  "So  —  no,  I  can't  say  I  know  much  about  what 
He  looks  like,  Joey." 

Joey  nodded  gravely.  He  understood,  but  again  he 
could  not  express  himself.  He  sat  staring  at  Mag  in  a 
way  that  made  her  uneasy,  then  abruptly  he  leaped 
to  his  feet. 

"I  gotto  be  going,"  he  explained. 

"Joey,"  called  Mag,  feebly  beckoning  with  a  hand  on 
which  there  were  only  three  fingers. 

"Eyah?" 

"There's  a  banana  there  on  the  table.  Go  on,  now; 
take  it.  No,  I  don't  want  it.  It's  for  you.  I  wisht  I 
had  two  for  you,  Joey." 

She  watched  him  as  he  peeled  the  fruit  with  avid 
fingers. 

"Are  you  feeling  all  right,  Joey?"  she  asked.  "You 
look  just  a  little  ailing." 

Joey  started  for  the  door. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  said,  with  a  bite  of  banana  in  his 
mouth.  "Sure,  I'm  all  right.  S'long." 

And  the  door  closed  behind  him  and  Old  Mag  was 
left  alone  to  reflection  over  Joey's  wonderful  ideas. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MRS.  DICKY  CLEWS  was  Ruth's  dear  friend. 
She  loved  and  revered  Ruth  for  being  all  that 
she  was  not.     Ruth's  removal  to  Clay  Court 
was  a  blow  to  her. 

"The  dear,  dear  girl!"  she  wailed.  "Just  think  of 
her,  our  incomparable  Ruth,  living  over  there.  Think 
of  that  girl  among  those  people.  Oh,  it's  too  awful  to 
think  about." 

She  resolved  with  all  the  strength  of  her  soul  that  she 
would  make  a  journey  to  the  Tenement  and  beg  Ruth 
to  give  it  up.  But  the  day  set  for  the  event  turned  out 
to  be  rudely  warm,  and  Mrs.  Clews  decided  that  it  would 
be  just  too  awful  over  there  in  that  district.  For 
which  Mrs.  Dicky  Clews  was  not  to  be  blamed  one 
little  bit. 

When  she  heard  from  Dicky  of  my  proposed  expedition 
of  discovery  into  the  district,  she  alighted  upon  me  with 
all  the  impetuosity  of  her  charming  nature.  I  must  — 
I  simply  must  —  make  Ruth  understand  that  nothing 
could  save  her,  Mrs.  Clews's,  life  from  utter  desolation 
but  for  her,  Ruth,  to  go  motoring  with  her  Sunday 
evening. 

"She'll  come,  she'll  come  even  to  help  me  if  you  do 
your  duty  and  deliver  my  message  as  I  have  given  it  to 

138 


Joey  the  Dreamer  139 

you,"  said  Mrs.  Dicky.  "Tell  her  — tell  her  that  I 
will  be  unhappy  for  days  if  she  doesn't  come  with  you  and 
make  up  the,  four  for  a  ride  up  north.  That  will  bring 
her;  I  know  Ruth  Arthur." 

It  seemed  she  did,  for  Ruth  agreed  to  go. 

She  was  not  in  her  room  at  the  time  appointed,  but  I 
knew  where  to  find  her.  Down  in  Perkins's  two-room 
back  cave  she  had  gone  for  a  last  few  minutes'  watch  of 
the  baby,  and  the  baby  being  quiet  and  apparently  much 
better  she  came  out  of  that  hole  with  something  like  joy 
upon  her  countenance.  But  it  must  have  been  very 
dark  in  there  after  she  had  gone. 

Sunday  evening  in  Clay  Court  the  tenement  boils  and 
bubbles  over  into  the  street  with  sweltering  life.  The 
hot  streets,  under  the  hot  shades  of  night,  remain  as 
purgatories,  the  stones  heated  during  the  day  to  torture 
during  the  night.  The  tenements  within  are  hell.  Every 
window  is  an  opening  where  faces,  young  and  old,  crowd 
together  gasping  for  air.  The  cheeks  of  the  women  are  .a 
slimy  gray,  and  their  eyes  are  wild,  half  mad  with  the 
torture  of  their  daily  life.  The  young  children  moan  and 
tear  at  their  feverish  bodies.  One  of  them,  a  little  mite 
of  a  girl,  tosses  on  the  damp  blocks  in  the  street  and 
moans,  "Oh,  please,  ma;  please  make  it  cool  again." 
And  all  the  time,  as  darkness  comes  on,  it  seems  to 
grow  warmer. 

There  had  been  much  drinking  during  the  day,  and 
more  talk.  The  rain  had  stopped  and  the  talk  was  all 
out-of-doors.  The  threatened  wage-cut,  of  course,  was 
the  predominant  subject.  Men  cursed  the  Company  and 


140  Joey  the  Dreamer 

treated  one  another  to  drink  with  the  price  of  a  day's 
food.  Then  they  grew  moody  and  began  to  think;  and 
in  every  eye  was  the  look  of  pain,  of  torture,  while 
even  the  crowded  buildings  seemed  to  cry  out  with  the 
misery  they  held. 

Up  the  Avenue  the  church  bells  began  to  ring,  calling 
to  evening  service.  You  could  hear  them  in  the  brawl- 
ing medley  if  you  listened  hard,  but  there  was  no  message 
in  them  now;  they  uttered  merely  a  series  of  brassy  notes, 
for  no  message  could  penetrate  into  our  world.  For  the 
world  was  damned,  and  its  people  likewise,  and  there 
was  no  hope.  This  was  what  could  be  heard  in  Clay 
Court  Sunday  night  while  the  bells  were  calling.  "Why 
do  you  ring,  bells?  "  one  might  have  asked;  and  the  bells, 
had  they  been  honest,  must  have  answered:  "We  ring 
for  the  happy  part  of  the  world." 

For  all  the  world  is  not  like  this;  all  the  world  is  not 
damned.  No,  even  Clay  Court  knew,  from  hearsay,  of 
the  places  of  the  blest;  and,  miracle  of  miracles!  Ruth 
and  I  got  on  a  street  car  and  were  transported  thither  in 
a  twenty -minute  ride.  It  took  only  that  long  to  go  to  the 
home  of  Mrs.  Clews,  in  the  world  of  the  fortunate.  Or, 
at  least,  it  was  the  world  of  plenty,  of  more  than  plenty  — 
of  too  much. 

The  world  was  pleasant  here.  It  was  more  than 
pleasant,  it  was  inspiring.  It  was  full  of  confidence,  of 
hope,  and  of  hopes  and  dreams  realized.  All  things  were 
pleasing,  some  beautiful,  many  wonderful. 

Great,  proud  houses  reared  their  walls,  finely  fitted 
and  pleasing  to  the  eye,  in  the  midst  of  spacious 


Joey  the  Dreamer  141 

grounds.  Correct  walks  led  from  correct  gateways  to 
doorways  which  soothed  the  senses  to  enter.  All  was  as 
it  should  be.  The  path  of  life  was  pleasant.  Order  and 
accuracy  obtained  in  spite  of  superabundance.  All  things 
pleased  the  eye,  nothing  occurred  to  offend  the  ear. 
Even  the  night  air  itself  seemed  a  work  of  art,  purified, 
laundered,  and  tempered  to  make  it  pleasant  to 
mankind  —  and  his  wife. 

"Mr.  Lord!  So  good  of  you!"  Mrs.  Dicky  greeted 
in  a  way  that  was  a  study  in  itself.  "And  you  did 
succeed  in  making  our  wonderful  Ruth  come  with  us.  My 
dear  Ruth !  Really,  you  should  do  this  sort  of  thing  more 
often.  Set  you  up  after  working  so  hard  among  your 
pets.  Must  be  trying  on  you  over  there,  my  dear,  in 
this  hot  weather?  And  as  for  me  —  I've  had  nothing 
but  woe  all  summer.  I  —  I've  actually  lost  my  Baby. 
Yes,  he's  gone  forever.  I've  quite  given  up  hope.  We've 
offered  a  thousand  to  the  police  if  they  bring  him  back, 
but  no  results.  Just  a  week  ago  to  day  the  dear  little 
love  slipped  out  of  the  garden  —  and  that  was  the  end 
of  my  Baby.  Yes;  disappeared.  Oh,  it's  knocked  me 
all  up.  Every  morning  I  look  into  his  room,  and  there's 
his  little  cot  —  empty !  Everything  always  pounds  you 
so  when  you're  least  fit  to  buck  up.  'Pon  my  soul  I 
don't  know  what  I  shall  do  if  it  doesn't  let  up.  Here  I've 
simply  got  to  stay  in  town  for  another  week.  Think 
of  that!  And  all  on  account  of  Dicky  here  and  his 
insane  ambition." 

"Haw,  haw!"  laughed  Dicky.  "Haw,  haw!  You  can 
hike  if  you  like,  y'know." 


142  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Daresay."  Mrs.  Dicky's  black  eyes  spat  well-bred 
fire.  "But  you  must  stay,  of  course." 

"Of  course,"  said  Dicky.  "Haw,  haw!  Of  course. 
Business  y'know,  Miss  Arthur,  business.  And  who  so 
cruel  as  to  desert  the  struggling  hubby  on  the  field 
of  business  battle.  Who,  indeed?  Not  the  present 
incumbent,  b'gad.  Haw,  haw!" 

At  this  Mrs.  Dicky's  beautiful  back  suddenly  stared 
her  Dicky  in  the  face. 

"You  must  excuse  him,  dear.  He's  a  business  man. 
Perfect  slave " 

"I  am,  really,  I  am,  now,  Miss  Arthur,"  interrupted 
Dicky.  "No,  no;  'pon  my  word,  Lord,  don't  laugh. 
Actually  have  to  stay  over  the  week  to  vote  at  the  meet- 
ing next  Saturday.  Oh,  an  awful  worry  this  summer, 
an  awful  strain.  Got  to  vote  an  increased  dividend. 
Have  to  do  it,  y'know.  Everybody's  paying  big  this 
year.  Have  to  do  it,  too.  Can't  lag  behind,  y'know; 
not  at  the  clip  the  game's  running  now.  Vote  a  wage- 
cut  Saturday,  I  understand.  Business  dropped  off  a 
little;  got  to  do  something.  Oh,  I  tell  you  frankly,  Lord, 
it's  hard-going  for  me;  and  I  must  say  —  all  respects  to 
the  greatly  lamented  pater  —  I  wish  —  by  Jove,  I  do  — 
I  wish  he  hadn't  chucked  such  a  swath  of  his  filthy  luc' 
into  Consolidated  Factory  —  I  say,  nothing  wrong, 
old  man?" 

"Not  a  word,"  said  I. 

"Haw!  Miss  Arthur,  won't  you  feel  sorry  for  me? 
Pity  the  poor  business  slave  thing,  y'know?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Ruth,  fervently. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  143 

"Haw!  Appreciated  at  last!  Haw,  haw!"  spluttered 
Dicky. 

" Thank  goodness ! "said  Mrs.  Dicky  distantly.  "Here's 
the  car." 

Another  wonder  of  this  wonderful  world.  An  instru- 
ment of  motion  that  moved  with  the  rhythm  of  music, 
a  symphony  of  transportation.  Out  of  the  correct 
grounds  on  to  the  correct  boulevard  it  rolled  with  the  ease 
of  slow  flowing  water.  A  slight  break  in  tone,  as  the 
speed  moved  up  a  notch,  then  —  hmm !  —  and  with  the 
drone  of  a  buzzy  bee  the  asphalt  began  to  flow  backward, 
the  panorama  of  lights,  of  vistas,  of  life,  began  to  flash 
past,  and  the  night  air  became  a  breeze  of  magical  effects. 

("Blamed  teakettle,"  grumbled  Dicky.  "But  I'll 
have  a  car  for  next  year.  Four  makes  ordered  —  to  get 
a  good  one.") 

Hummm!  A  curve  in  the  asphalt  and  the  lake  ran 
toward  us  in  a  threatening  sweep,  then,  laughing,  curved 
gracefully  away.  The  fresh  feel  of  water  in  the  air,  the 
moonlight  on  the  waves  —  little  blinking  waves;  the 
sense  of  mastery  over  all  the  landscape.  It  was  magic, 
sheer  magic. 

"Rotten  long  ride,"  said  Dicky. 

The  Park,  cool,  dark;  punctuated  with  lights  that 
shone  on  green  leaves  and  grass,  and  on  the  people  on 
benches.  Then  more  of  the  easily  flowing  asphalt;  the 
wonderful  panorama  of  links  and  shadows;  and  long 
stretches  of  the  wonderful,  silver-specked  lake  that 
heaved  and  moved  only  enough  to  make  perfect  the 
picture;  and  overhead,  the  heavens,  the  garden  of  stars, 


144  Joey  the  Dreamer 

in  full  bloom.  And  always  there  was  the  night  rushing 
up  to  meet  us,  and  the  fresh  air! 

"Bet  you  what  you  like  we  break  down  in  a  dry  dis- 
trict," offered  Dicky  generously.  He  was  striving 
desperately  to  illumine  the  evening.  Mrs.  Dicky 
apathetically  took  the  wager. 

"Though  you  never  pay,"  she  added. 

"Haw,  haw!"  said  Dicky.  Then,  being  smitten  by 
inspiration,  "Double  it  that  I  do."  Which  witticism, 
with  variations,  kept  him  in  pleasant  conversation  for 
miles.  '  He  had  almost  thought  of  something  just  as 
good  when  we  reached  the  park. 

Another  wonder.  A  playground  in  keeping  with  the 
rest  of  this  wonderful  world.  It  was  beautiful.  It  was 
all  too  fine  and  ideal  to  belong  to  a  world  that  held  a 
Clay  Court.  And  when  the  symphony  players  began,  in 
perfect  tone  with  the  setting  about  them,  the  riches 
below,  the  wonderful  stars  above,  one  might  have  been 
pardoned  for  believing  for  a  moment  that  the  beautiful 
dreams  do  come  true. 

"Really,"  confided  Mrs.  Dicky  over  her  fan  to  me, 
"Dicky  is  getting  to  be  a  trial.  Heard  about  his  latest 
idea?  No?  Not  really?  Where  have  you  been?  He 
wants  to  divorce  me.  Yes,  really.  Shocking  of  such  a 
nice  little  fellow  as  Dicky,  isn't  it?  Wants  me  to  go  away 
for  the  summer  —  anywhere  —  then  he'll  be  a  bad 
Dicky,  and  I'll  come  back  and  find  out  all  about  it  and 
have  cause  for  suing  on  indisputable  grounds.  Ha,  ha, 
ha!  That  terrible,  scheming  little  Dicky!  I  admire 
him  sometimes  —  almost,  really  I  do." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  145 

"Has  our  Richard  been  casting  eyes  elsewhere,  then?" 
I  asked. 

"Dicky?  Pooh!  No,  indeed.  But  he's  bored  to 
death.  He  says,  'A  fellow's  got  to  be  doing  something, 
y'know  —  some  thing  —  or  he'll  go  stale.'  What,  oh! 
what  shall  I  do  to  him?  Hush!  Don't  —  don't  laugh, 
please,  here  comes  our  pastor,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Danesty. 
Now  watch  Dicky  polish  up  his  rep'  on  his  reverence." 

Dicky  had  the  Rev.  Mr.  Danesty  by  the  hand. 

"Not  working  this  evening,  Danesty?  Out  for  a  little 
recreation  after  strenuous  labours  —  that  sort  of  thing?  " 

"My  pulpit  is  occupied  by  Mr.  McCoomber,  a  young 
pastor  awaiting  a  call,  Mr.  Clews,"  replied  the  Reverend 
Danesty.  "As  you  say,  I  am  out  for  an  evening 
of- 

"Yes;  that  sort  of  thing.  So  am  I.  Terrible  strain 
on  me  lately,  Danesty,  terrible  strain." 

"Ah,  you  mustn't  overwork,  Mr.  Clews." 

"Haw,  haw!  Trust  me,"  said  Dicky.  "Awful  decent 
chap,  that  fellow  Danesty,"  he  confided  to  Ruth  as  the 
divine  moved  on  to  greet  Mrs.  Dicky.  "Knows  his 
business  like  a  business  man.  Fine  head,  bully  head. 
Go  into  anything  and  do  well.  Does  well  now,  I  under- 
stand. Came  to  St.  James  with  nothing  but  his  looks; 
owns  quite  a  handful  of  stocks  now.  You  can  afford  to 
put  a  bit  in  the  way  of  a  fellow  like  Danesty,  y'know. 
Haw,  haw!  I  did  myself  a  good  turn  with  him,  unloaded 
a  hundred  Consolidated  Factory  on  him  as  a  token  of 
esteem.  That's  a  little  trouble  rid  of.  Eh?  Nothing 
wrong?  Shall  I  get  some "  . 


146  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Nothing,"  said  Ruth.  "Let  us  — listen  to  the 
music,  for  instance." 

"Music?"  said  Dicky.     "Oh  yes  —  good  idea." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Danesty  was  approaching  Mrs.  Dicky. 

"Ah!  Any  news  of  the — ah — of  Baby,  Mrs  Clews?" 
he  asked  solicitously.  "I  sincerely  hope ' 

"I  don't  any  more,"  said  Mrs.  Dicky,  nobly  resigned. 
"He's  gone.  He's  lost  to  me.  I  know  it  instinctively." 

His  Reverence  sighed  sympathetically.  "We  must 
bear  up  bravely  under  our  sorrows,  Mrs.  Clews.  Idle 
words,  I  am  aware;  but  true  after  all.  One  doesn't 
keep  young  if  one  gives  way  to  grief.  And  not  to 

keep  young "  the  Rev.  Mr.  Danesty  bowed 

gallantly  —  "  would  be  a  terrible  misfortune  for  us  all  who 
are  favoured  with  your  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Clews. 
And  remember,  there  is  always  Hope." 

"No;  no  more,"  said  Mrs.  Dicky.  "But  you're  right 
about  the  keeping  young  idea.  And  you  said  it  so  well, 
your  Reverence,  you  said  it  very  well,  indeed.  Don't  you 
think  it  was  well  said,  Mr  .Lord  —  that  is,  for  a  —  "  Mrs. 
Dicky  shot  a  playful  glance  up  atDanesty — "for  a  divine?  " 

"No  one  could  have  said  it  better,  Mrs.  Clews,"  I 
agreed.  His  Reverence  beamed  with  extra  pleasure. 

"By  the  way, Mr. Lord," he  said  lightly,  "I  haven't  seen 
you  much  lately?" 

"No;  nor  Ruth  Arthur,  either,"  supplemented  Mrs. 
Dicky.  "She's  gone  crazy  over  her  greasy  kids,  and  I 
suspect  that  Mr.  Lord  is  going  likewise." 

"Ah,  no."  The  Rev.  Mr.  Danesty  honoured  me  with 
a  full  four  inches  of  smiling  flattery.  "  Mr.  Lord  is  a  man 


Joey  the  Dreamer  147 

of  the  world,  and  full  of  experience.  He  knows  the 
futility  of  silly  theories,  and  is  not  foolish  enough  to 
waste  any  of  his  valuable  time." 

"No  danger  of  yourself  doing  that,  either;  is  there, 
Danesty?" 

"Ah!  You  surely  think  more  of  my  judgment  than  to 
imagine  such  a  thing." 

"Yes.  No  wasting  valuable  time  for  you.  By  the 
way,  Danesty,  I  heard  a  sermon  last  night." 

"A  sermon?" 

"Yes;  Miss  Arthur  was  speaking  to  a  crowd  of  working 
people.  I  really  wonder  how  you  would  look  delivering 
her  text." 

"What  was  it?" 

"'Do  to  others  as  you  would  like  them  —  '  You  know 
what  I  mean.  What  are  the  exact  words,  Danesty?" 

"I  have  forgotten,"  said  Mr.  Danesty,  stiffly.  "I 
am  sorry  to  hear  that  so  accomplished  a  young  woman 
as  Miss  Arthur  has  taken  to  speaking  to  the  rabble 
of  the  streets." 

And  I  rose,  laughing,  and  drove  Dicky  away  from 
Ruth  so  we  might  sit  alone. 

"Are  you  glad  you  came?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ruth. 

"So  am  I.    And  I'm  glad  we  met  Danesty." 

"Why  so?" 

"He  made  me  see  many  things.  Now  I  know  why 
you  feel  you  must  go  on  as  you  are  doing.  I  wonder  who 
is  most  in  the  dark,  these  poor  devils  over  there  in  Clay 
Court,  or  foolish,  good-natured  Dicky  Clews?" 


148  Joey  the  Dreamer 

At  last  the  evening  was  over.  The  motor  rolled  us 
back,  along  the  wonderful  lake,  through  the  park,  over 
the  flowing  asphalt,  to  the  Clews's  residence. 

"Actually  I  dread  going  home,"  wailed  Mrs.  Dicky. 
"Now  I'll  have  to  go  past  his  little  room.  I'll  know  that 
no  dear,  darling  Baby  is  sleeping  on  his  little  cot.  I'll 
awake  in  the  morning,  and  there'll  be  no  Baby  —  no 
cunning  little  bark  to  greet  me  in  the  morning  —  nothing! 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  shall  go  mad.  I  know  I  shall  if  they  do 
not  find  my  Baby!" 

She  kissed  Ruth  appealingly.     "You'll  come  and  see 
me  again  soon  won't  you,  dear.     You're  a  tonic  and  - 
and  a  disinfectant  to  have  around." 

"Haw,  haw!"  said  Dicky  sleepily.  "We  'gree  on  one 
thing,  present  incumbent  and  myself,  jus'  one:  It's  a 
real  hard  oP  world  to  be  in.  G'night." 

Twenty  minutes  on  the  jolting  cars  and  we  were  back 
in  Clay  Court. 

It  was  different  here.  The  doorways  and  sidewalks 
were  full  of  sleeping  men,  women,  and  children  —  puddles 
of  humanity.  Even  the  streets  served  as  sleeping  places, 
damp  and  steaming  as  they  were.  The  roofs  were 
crowded;  for  the  shut-in  rooms,  the  little,  cave-like  com- 
partments of  the  great,  sweltering  brick  box,  were 
unbearable  dungeons  in  which  no  one  could  abide.  Chil- 
dren tossed  and  moaned  a  feeble  protest.  A  woman  moved 
over  the  hot  gravel  of  the  roof  hunting  a  breath  of  air 
in  which  to  lay  her  pillow.  A  man  cursed  her  sleepily 
as  she  stumbled  over  him.  The  woman  moved  on  in 
silence.  So  the  Tenement  tried  to  sleep. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  149 

Yet  the  all-seeing  stars  gleamed  hard  and  dry  above, 
nor  did  they  laugh.  The  moon,  impartial  artist  of 
night,  gently  touched  the  black  ugliness  with  shim- 
mery  white  and  silver.  But  Peace  there  was  not. 
Only  there  was  a  twitching  rest,  in  preparation  for  the 
remorseless  morrow. 

News  came  quickly.  A  lamp  burning  quietly  in  the 
first  floor  rear  told  the  story.  The  Perkins  baby  was 
dead. 

"And  just  before  it  went  it  held  up  its  little  hands 
and  it  says:  Tapa!'" 

A  mere  incident.  The  Tenement  said,  "Lucky 
little  devil." 

"Oh,  John!"  whispered  Ruth  in  the  hall.  "This 
would  end  if  the  others  knew."  She  leaned  her  little 
head  against  my  arm  as  we  prepared  to  part,  for  she 
was  very  tired. 

"It  would,"  she  whispered.  "You  know  it  would, 
don't  you?" 

And  I  answered,  "Yes."  For  that  seemed  the  truth, 
even  after  the  Rev.  Mr.  Danesty. 


CHAPTER  XV 

JOEY  was  wrong.     He  was  not  all  right,  as  he  had 
stoutly  informed  Old   Mag.      When   Freddy  and 
Delia     came     to     their     machines     on     Monday 
morning  Joey  was  not  among  those  present. 

There  is  a  certain  form  of  test  in  this  Monday  morning 
re-meeting  in  the  Factory.  One  gets  the  fag-end  of 
stories  by  the  mere  fact  of  a  worker's  presence,  absence, 
or  appearance.  A  paster  left  her  bench  one  Saturday 
evening  with  this  terse  remark  to  her  friends:  "Getting 
married  to-morrow,  girls.  S'long."  Monday  morning 
she  was  back  at  the  bench.  "Then  he  trun  you  down?" 
gasped  her  friends.  "I  did  it,"  said  the  girl.  "I  trun 
him  down.  The  slob!  He  didn't  have  the  license. 
'Skiddo,'  I  sez,  when  he  sez  it  don't  make  no  difference. 
'I  may  love  you  something  awful,  but  I  ain't  no  silly 
fairy  out  of  a  foolish  book  —  Sadie!  What  did  you 
do;  swipe  my  sleeves?" 

In  the  matter  of  absence,  among  the  adults  or  semi- 
adults,  it  may  spell  comedy  of  a  terribly  broad  sort,  or 
tragedy,  both  usually  having  conception  in  alcohol. 
And  as  for  appearance,  there  is  a  whole  epic  in  a  black 
eye  or  a  cheap  little  ring  on  a  little  finger.  It  is  on 
Saturday  night  and  Sunday  that  things  happen  for  the 
workers.  They  live  then.  And  on  Monday  morning, 

150 


Joey  the  Dreamer  151 

stepping  back  into  their  places  on  the  grisly  mill,  they 
look  at  one  another  to  see  what  living  may  have  brought. 

Freddy  and  Delia  missed  Joey  first  of  all.  Joey  always 
was  there  before  them,  a  white  little  face  hopelessly 
waiting  for  the  ten-hour  grind  to  begin.  They  knew 
now  that  the  face  had  meant  something  to  them,  though 
just  what  neither  would  have  tried  to  say. 

"He  must  have  overslept,"  said  Delia,  as  she  drew 
the  dusty  cover  from  her  machine.  As  the  shiny,  worn 
instrument  appeared  to  her,  she  sat  down  on  her  stool 
and  sighed.  Another  week  had  begun,  another  instal- 
ment of  the  weary,  endless,  round.  And  here  is  a  strange 
fact:  each  Monday  the  Factory  people  wish  it  was 
Saturday  again  —  wish  that  they  were  a  week  older. 
Delia  looked  about  her  with  disgust.  The  Factory  was 
not  beautiful.  It  looked  like  an  unpopulated  prison. 
It  always  looked  so  on  Monday  mornings.  The  dirty 
gray  covers  on  the  machines  suggested  shrouds.  The 
dust  lay  undisturbed  on  all  things.  The  drear  emptiness 
of  the  semi-inhabited  room  was  ghastly;  and  though 
everybody  bustled  and  lighted  gas  jets  it  was  un- 
healthily quiet  until  the  power  started.  So  Delia 
sighed,  and  Freddy,  as  if  to  interpret  the  very  thought 
in  her  mind,  said: 

"Well,  we  had  a  touch  of  high  life  Saturday  eve',  yer 
leddyship." 

"Was  that  what  it  was?"  said  Delia  idly. 

"So  they  say.     How'd  you  like  it?" 

"Fine!" 

Freddy  looked  a  trifle  disappointed  at  the  warmth  of 


152  Joey  the  Dreamer 

her  reply  but  went  on:  "How  would  you  like  to  be  a 
merry  butterfly  among  the  lights  as  a  regular  thing?" 

"Fine!"  repeated  Delia. 

"Hah?" 

"Fine!    Swell!    I  wish't  was  Sat'day  eve'  again." 

Freddy  grew  more  serious.  "You'd  like  that?  — 
chasing  'round  nights  to  shows,  and  —  and " 

"And  swell  restirunts.  Would  I?  Oh,  maybe  I 
wouldn't  just  swim  in  it.  Um !  Waltz  me  around  again, 
Freddy!  I  can  just  see  those  swell,  funny-coloured 
lamps  in  that  place  we  went  to,  and  the  swell  clothes  — • 
Course,"  (with  a  shrug)  "  I  wouldn't  care  to  chase  'round 
without  I  had  swell  clothes  myself." 

"But  if  you  had  them,  you  would?" 

"Would  I?  Well!  Think  I'm  crazy?  Would  I  over- 
look a  good  thing?" 

"Does  that  kind  of  a  game  look  so  awful  good  to  you, 
Dell  —  that  night-game?" 

"Why,  sure.     Poof!    Just  look  at  this  dust." 

"If  you  had  the  swell  clothes  and  the  chance 
you'd " 

"Up  to  my  neck.     Why  not?" 

"Oh,  nothing."  Freddy  carefully  tightened  a  nut  on 
the  stitcher.  "But  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  there 
ain't  anything  much  to  that  kind  of  stuff,  shows  —  an* 
all  that.  Nothing  that  lasts,  you  know,  Dell." 

"Lasts  long  enough  for  me.  Lasts  one  night,  and 
then  some." 

"Eyah.     Then   the    morning   after." 

"And  then  another  evening  coining  after  that." 


Joey  the  Dreamer    ,  153 

Freddy  stood  up  straight  now.  "You  do  care  for  the 
frow-frow  and  the  shining  lights,  don't  you,  kid?"  he 
said  steadily.  He  was  very  serious,  and  Delia  noticing 
it,  flared  up  seriously,  too. 

"Care  for 'em!  Why  shouldn't  I  care  for  'em.  Why 
shouldn't  I  be  hungry  for  those  shining  things?  Good 
land!  how  can  you  ask  that?  Do  you  know  how  I've 
lived  all  my  life?  Ever  since  I  can  remember,  I  was 
workun'.  A  slave  working  to  get  just  enough  to  live 
on  to  keep  me  alive  so  I  could  work,  and  get  enough  to 
live  on  an'  no  more  not  a  thing  more.  Never  had  any- 
thing —  not  anything.  If  I  had,  if  I'd  had  one  teeny 
taste  of  these  things,  it  mightn'  be  so  hard.  I  see  other 
people  have  things;  and  I  want  'em  myself.  I  want  'em. 
I  tell  yuh,  I  want  'em,  I  want  'em,  I  want  'em !  And,  by 
Gawd!  I'm  going  to  get  'em,  too."  She  dropped  her  eyes 
the  moment  her  tongue  stopped  going.  Freddy  did  not 
move.  Only  he  stood  and  looked  at  her,  the  kindly,  big 
brotherly  grin  in  one  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"Don't  starve  yourself  any  more,  kid,"  said  he. 
"You're  going  to  be  fed  all  the  shiny  things  you  can 
stomach  from  now  on.  Go's  far's  you  like,  kid;  I'm 
the  providing  boy.  But,  say,  Dell;  there's  something 
better  than  all  that  stuff.  Yes,  there  is.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  game  stacked  up  against  a  Home  —  a  real 
Home  of  your  own?" 

"  I  don't  think  anything  about  it.    I  know  what's  fun." 

"Sure."  He  saw  how  deeply  he  had  touched  her  and 
relented.  "But  you  remember  what  happened  last 
night?" 


154  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Well?" 

"Well?"  They  eyed  each  other.  Freddy  smiled, 
but  Delia  spoke  first. 

"Freddy,"  said  she  looking  at  the  clock  on  the  wall, 
"You're  sure  a  good  scout  to  me!"  And  then  without  a 
pause,  "Gee  whiz!  One  minute  to  seven,  and  Joey 
ain't  here  yet.  He's  locked  out  now,  poor  kid,  and 
he'll  lose  half  a  day." 

"Maybe  he  isn't  coming  at  all  to-day,"  said  Freddy. 
"He  was  looking  pretty  tough  yesterday." 

"Huh!"  said  Delia.  "That  ain't  anything  new." 
Then  the  power  came,  the  belts  creaked,  the  pulleys 
groaned,  the  shafting  protested  like  rheumatic  bones. 
A  moment  later  the  machines  were  clattering  insanely; 
and  the  day's  work  had  begun. 

Freddy  was  right.  Joey  was  not  coming  at  all  to-day. 
As  we  have  said,  Joey  was  not  all  right. 

After  he  left  Old  Mag  he  went  down  in  the  hall  and  ate 
his  banana  and  wondered  what  was  the  matter  with  his 
head.  It  felt  hot  and  big.  He  went  out  bareheaded  and 
turned  his  face  up  toward  the  cooling  drops  of  rain,  but 
the  rain  stopped  in  a  few  minutes  and  he  was  hotter 
than  ever.  He  slipped  up  to  the  corner  and  drank,  drank, 
dra/ik,  at  the  hydrant  in  a  horse-trough  before  Sodders's 
saloon,  and  though  his  stomach  swelled  with  the  water 
he  drank  it  seemed  that  he  never  could  cool  the  burning 
in  his  throat.  He  went  back  and  sat  on  the  curb. 

He  slunk  to  his  bed  early  and  without  any  supper,  and 
dreamed  horribly.  He  dreamed  that  he  had  lost  his 
job,  and  that  the  Superintendent  pursued  him  out  into 


Joey  the  Dreamer  155 

the  street,  and  even  home,  to  the  Tenement;  and  the 
Superintendent  was  as  black  as  coal  and  as  big  as  all  the 
world.  Then  there  was  a  gleam  of  light,  and  he  saw 
Miss  Ruth  and  she  reached  forward  and  almost  saved 
him  from  the  big,  black  pursuer,  but  something  seemed 
to  happen  to  her,  and  it  was  all  dark  again.  In  the 
morning,  in  answer  to  his  mother's  call:  "What  the 
devil's  matter  wit'  you?  Hah?  Why  don't  you  get 
up?  Trying  to  get  late  so  you  can  get  fired  an'  loaf 
around  all  summer?  Hah?  "  he  replied  feebly  that  he  was 
"weak  in  the  knees;  be  awright  in  a  minute." 

He  tried  to  arise  and  found  that  his  legs  would  not 
support  him,  whereat  he  fell  back  and  lay  unnoticed  all 
day,  his  mother  that  day  returning  Mrs.  Rambo's  visit. 
Ruth,  discovering  the  child's  condition  in  the  evening, 
came  in  to  act  as  nurse,  and  Mrs.  Bruggers  wailed: 

"That's  the  way  it  goes  when  you  has  to  raise  them 
little  kids  that  ain't  worth  keepin'  when  they've  been 
got.  Bring  'em  up  to  where  they  ought  'a  be  a  help  to 
you,  and  after  you  wear  the  best  years  o'  your  lif e  taking 
a  care  of  'em,  first  thing  you  know  they're  sick  on  you  and 
you  have  to  give  up  yer  bed  to  'em,  and  feed  'em  soup; 
there's  yer  thanks.  And  then  a  man  who  can't  work 
only  half  of  hah"  the  time!" 

"My  love!"  protested  Bruggers.     "You  know " 

"Shut  up!  You  don't  know  nahthun.  I'm  telling 
you  something.  Going  to  get  a  job  now?  Hah?" 

Mr.  Bruggers  looked  inquiringly  toward  the  bed  — 
Ruth  had  insisted  on  Joey's  removal  to  the  larger  sleeping 
room  —  and  turned  to  Ruth. 


156  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Do  you  think  he'll  be  sick  long,  Miss  Ruth?  'Cause 
it's  hard  on  us  to  have  him  laid  up  like  this  now  after 
I've  been  out  of  work  so  long  and  times  so  hard  as  they 
are.  D'you  think  more  than  a  week?  Eh?  He  ought 
to  be  back  to  work  then?  What  you  think?" 

"You  ought  to  be  back  tuh  work  right  now,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Bruggers.  "You  and  your  little  half-day 
jobs!  If  I  was  a  man  I'd  be  'shamed.  But  what's  the 
use  o'  talking  tuh  you?  Waste  o'  wind.  S'help  me 
Gawd,  I  never  see  anybody  in  pants  that  disgraced  'em 
more  than  you." 

"My  love,"  whispered  Bruggers  softly,  "you  wrong 
me.  I  — "  he  picked  up  the  ever  conspicuous  can  and 
drummed  significantly  on  the  bottom  with  a  coin.  "I 
can  do  it,"  he  said  with  a  wink.  "I  borrowed  from  Dolan." 

"You  sly  devil!"  said  Mrs.  Bruggers,  greatly  mollified. 
"Hurry  up  now.  Letting  me  set  there  suffocating  with 
thirst!  That's  thanks  one  gets.  You  hustle  now,  you 
hear?" 

When  Bruggers  came  back  with  the  beer  he  found  a 
state  of  affairs  in  the  Bruggers's  establishment  that 
shocked  his  sensitive  nature  to  a  degree.  The  woman's 
noise  had  led  me  to  the  room,  and  to  me  as  to  Ruth,  Mrs. 
Bruggers  had  proceeded  to  wail  her  complaint  against 
JoeVs  inconsiderate  conduct.  Unfortunately  our  points 
of  view  differed,  and  I  failed  to  sympathize.  Wherefore 
Bruggers  stepped  across  his  own  threshold  to  find  the 
wife  of  his  bosom  loudly  appealing  for  protection  from 
the  alleged  verbal  onslaught  of  a  person  who  dared  to 
criticize  her  treatment  of  her  own  child. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  157 

I  suggested  to  Bruggers  that  Joey  must  be  better 
cared  for. 

"Bruggers!  You  hear  that?  In  your  own  house  and 
to  your  own  face!  Throw  him  out;  throw  him  out,  if 
you're  a  man!" 

"Bruggers,"  said  I,  "the  boy  must  be  moved.  I'm 
going  to  take  him  upstairs." 

"Who  says  you  are?"  demanded  the  irate  mother. 
"Who  the  h — 1  are  you  to  come  'round  telling  what's 
to  be  done  with  folks'  kids?  Hah?  You  get  out  o'  this 
house  and  mind  your  own  business.  Take  care  of 
your  own  troubles,  mister,  and  we'll  take  care  of  our'n. 
Bruggers,  you  scut,  speak  up!" 

"I  was  going  to  say,  my  love,  stammered  Bruggers," 
"  going  to  say  that  perhaps  Mr.  Lord  might  be  willing  to 
do  something  to  make  up  for  —  for  the  boy's  lost  wages, 
since  he's  so  smart  and  ready  to  snatch  kids  from  their 
own  home." 

"Quite  right,  Bruggers."  Inwardly  I  blessed  the  man 
for  this  simple  solution  of  the  difficulty.  "  I  am  hiring 
Joey  at  —  four  dollars  a  week,  let  us  say."  I  laid  a  bill 
on  the  table.  "Two  dollars  in  advance."  Mrs.  Bruggers 
snatched  the  money  literally  from  under  her  husband's 
itching  fingers.  "  And  you're  not  to  interfere  with  the 
boy  until  he  is  well." 

I  believe  even  Ruth  was  surprised  at  me.  I  know  I 
was  surprised  at  myself.  For  a  crumpled  two-dollar 
bill  I  had  discovered  what  may  be  done  with  two-dollar 
bills  where  they  are  scarce. 

Ruth  stooped  over  to  lift  Joey  in  her  arms,  the  mystic, 


158  Joey  the  Dreamer 

sheltering  pose  of  woman  when  her  soul  is  stirred  to  help 
the  weak.  But  the  clothes  on  the  bed  and  on  Joey  were 
too  dirty  to  complete  the  picture.  It  wasn't  to  be 
endured.  I  had  never  done  this  sort  of  thing  before. 
I  had  never  thought  I  might  do  it.  Frankly,  it  was  not 
pleasant,  and  I  made  an  awkward  job  of  it,  but  somehow 
I  managed  to  get  the  little  fellow  up  where  I  could  carry 
him,  and  we  went  upstairs  and  laid  him  on  my  bed. 

"Take  him,"  we  heard  Mrs.  Bruggers  mumble  behind 
us.  "You're  welcome.  Only  don't  think  for  a  minute 
you  can  come  into  folkses  houses  and  tell  'em  to  do  what 
you  damn  please,  that's  all.  Bruggers!" 

"My   love?" 

"Hand  me  that  can." 

The  doctor  came  as  soon  as  I  could  find  him,  a 
capable  young  man  who  had  achieved  considerable 
publicity  for  his  work  in  the  quarter  and  yet  had 
remained  conscientious. 

"He'll  hardly  do,"  he  said  at  once.  "Should  have  had 
him  weeks,  months,  years  ago.  There's  nothing  left  for  him 
to  fight  with.  Probably  wasn't  anything  in  the  beginning." 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"Factoryitis  aggravating  Tenementitis,"  replied  the 
doctor.  "But  we  will  call  it  typhoid-malaria." 

"I  see,"  said  I.  "And  what  was  it  that  the  Perkins 
baby  died  of?" 

"Oh,  I  say  now,  old  man,"  said  the  man  of  medicine, 
"I  wouldn't  dig  too  far  into  these  things,  if  I  were  you. 
Bad  for  the  sleep,  you  know." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TRULY,  things  happen  over  here.  Forty-eight 
hours  after  moving  into  the  Tenement,  my  room 
was  turned  into  a  hospital  ward,  and  my  bed 
occupied  by  a  little  mite,  such  as  three  days  before  I  had 
not  known  existed  in  the  world.  In  a  way,  of  course,  I 
had  known,  the  same  as  most  of  us  know.  I  had  read  the 
reports  of  the  board  of  education,  those  terrible  reports 
that  explain  the  causes  for  delinquency  and  truancy 
among  the  school  children  of  the  lower  West  Side.  I 
had  heard  people  talk  of  Joeys;  I  had  even  seen  his 
counterparts.  But  I  had  never  known  one  of  him;  and 
now  here  he  lay  choking  for  breath  before  my  eyes. 

"And  yet,"  Ruth  had  said,  "there  is  plenty  of  food 
in  this  world." 

But  Joey  hadn't  got  his  share. 

"None  of  them  do  here,"  said  Ruth,  as  we  sat  dis- 
cussing this  matter,  while  we  watched  Joey.  "It  is  the 
truth,  impossible  as  it  may  seem.  The  doctor  has  told 
me,  and  he  knows.  Most  of  them  actually  go  hungry 
through  life,  under-nourished,  with  a  constant  craving 
that  they  don't  understand.  Then  they  drink.  That 
helps.  It  deadens  that  craving.  The  more  often  they 
drink,  the  less  frequently  do  they  feel  uncomfortable.  I 
wonder  how  it  is  that  they  don't  drink  more." 

159 


160  Joey  the  Dreamer 

And  yet  there  was  plenty  of  food  in  the  world.  Cer- 
tainly there  was.  More  than  plenty,  at  least  in  this 
grand  land  of  ours.  Impossible  that  anybody  should 
starve.  They  only  did  that  in  books  —  Joey  moaned 
and  feebly  tossed  his  arm  above  his  head.  Aye;  the 
doctor  was  right;  we  should  have  had  him  years  before. 

But  in  the  Tenement  now  Joey  became  famous. 

Two  things  there  are  that  are  sure  to  stir  the  old  women 
of  the  Tenement  —  a  funeral,  or  an  illness  that  promises 
one.  Weddings  they  regard  with  interested  but  critical 
eyes;  the  groom  may  or  may  not  be  able  to  earn  a  living 
for  two;  he  may  not  drink  up  all  his  wages;  there's  no 
judging  by  looks  when  a  man's  dressed  up.  Births  they 
discuss  in  expert  but  unexcited  fashion,  because  babies 
are  the  commonest  things  in  the  world  in  Clay  Court. 
But  a  funeral,  or  the  probability  of  one,  rouses  them  up 
to  real  enthusiasm. 

Then  they  chatter.  The  smallest  detail,  the  tiniest 
rumours,  become  subjects  over  which  to  gather  on  the 
stairs  and  with  shaking  heads  discuss  in  loud,  doleful 
whispers.  You  can  tell  by  these  groups  when  any  one 
is  dying  in  the  Tenement;  it  is  one  of  our  ways  of 
constantly  keeping  our  griefs  before  our  eyes. 

Joey,  as  one  of  a  dozen  little  working  boys  in  the  Tene- 
ment, had  failed  to  attract  much  attention  so  long  as 
he  managed  to  keep  out  of  bed,  save  in  that  he  was 
wonderfully  clean-mouthed.  Also  he  had  been  noted 
down  as  extraordinarily  puny  and  skinny,  and  a  few 
who  had  troubled  to  glance  twice  at  him  in  his  pensive 


Joey  the  Dreamer  161 

moments  had  said,  "There's  something  queer  about  that 
Bruggers  kid;  he's  got  such  way -off  eyes."  Otherwise 
he  was  like  the  other  children,  something  to  kick  from 
underfoot  when  he  got  in  the  way. 

But  now  that  he  was  sick  and  dying,  as  rumour  had  it 
through  the  Tenement,  he  at  once  became  an  item  of 
interest.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  women,  Joey's  illness  outshone  for  the  while  the 
all-absorbing  topic  of  the  coming  crisis.  They  said: 

"Sick,  is  he?  Oh,  well,  I've  said  all  the  time  he  wasn't 
long  for  this  world.  But,  dear,  dear,  I  must  go  up  and 
see  how  he's  doing,  poor  little  kid!" 

Then  they  came  up  the  stairs  to  the  fourth  floor  to 
proffer  offerings  of  delicacies  and  advice  such  as  would 
have  killed  Joey  in  a  day  had  all  been  made  use  of. 

Mrs.  Hansen,  as  a  midwife,  was  the  oracle  for  all 
gossips,  and  in  her  rooms  in  the  basement  they  gathered 
to  settle  the  fate  of  Joey. 

"Yess,  liddle  Yoey  iss  very  seek,"  said  Mrs.  Hansen. 
"  Deh  doctor,  he  tvist  his  sh'ulder  ven  I  esk  him  if  he  vill 
gat  veil.  I  know  dat  doctor;  ven  he  tvist  his  sh'ulder, 
dere  iss  purty  seek  people  in  det  house.  Den  det  boy 
e'n't  gatting  no  care.  No!  Dat  young  woman,  Miss 
Rut',  she  mebbe  olright;  I  dunno,  but  she  en't  had  no 
young  vuns  of  her  own,  I  know  dat." 

"Ah,  he's  a  weak  little  mite,"  sighed  one  of  the  circle. 
"He  never  was  strong." 

"Strong!  I  shu'  say  he  vass  strong.  You  tenk  he 
could  live  diss  long  if  he  en't?" 

"They  has  to  be  strong  if  you're  going  to  raise  um," 


162  Joey  the  Dreamer 

said  another.  "It's  me  that  knows.  Four  I  buried  and 
four  I  kept,  and  'twas  only  the  strong  ones  lived,  I'm 
telling  you." 

"He'll  make  a  pretty  little  corpse,"  ruminated  the 
other  woman,  "a  sweet  little  corpse.  You  may  think 
them  skinny  ones  don't,  but  they  always  plump  up  sort 
of  when  they're  in  the  coffin.  I  mind  my  Danny  —  you 
remember,  Mrs.  Hansen  —  as  little  and  peekid  as  he  was, 
but  the  undertaker  says  to  me,  'He'll  be  nothing  to  shame 
you  when  they  take  a  last  look  at  him',  and  he  wasn't 
neither,  as  you  know,  Mrs.  Hansen.  No,  poor  Mrs. 
Bruggers  needn't  worry  about  his  looking  a  fright,  'cause 
he  won't." 

"Will  he  die,  then?"  said  a  young  woman. 

The  others  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  then  shook  their 
heads  as  if  the  notion  of  anybody  doing  anything  but 
dying  in  this  vale  of  woe  and  sorrow  was  preposterous. 

"Dey  don't  lest  long  efter  dey're  down,"  said  Mrs. 
Hansen.  The  others  sighed  agreeably. 

"No,  no  —  a  few  days,  perhaps  —  look  how  the 
Perkins  baby  went.  No,  no;  after  they're  down  it  don't 
take  long  for  them." 

"  Ugh !  I  hate  to  think  of  funerals."  The  young  woman 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "They  make  you  feel  so  —  so 
like  what's-the-use-of-living." 

"Huh!"  The  old  women  smiled  upon  her  pityingly. 
She  was  young;  she  knew  no  better;  she  was  not  to  be 
condemned. 

"What  I  say,"  said  the  one  who  had  recalled  her  lost 
Danny,  "is  that  there  ain't  nothing  quite  so  fine  as  a 


Joey  the  Dreamer  163 

nice  funeral  with  a  nice  white  dress  and  some  flowers  to 
lay  you  out  in.  Oh!  it's  little  enough  a  body  gets  in  this 
life  to  let  herself  be  cheated  out  of  that.  Why,  look,  my 
dear,  it's  the  only  time  in  your  whole  life  when  you  really 
counts  for  something.  Yes,  indeed.  It's  the  only  time 
that  you're  the  whole  show  and  have  'tention  paid  you 
altogether  because  of  yourself.  Now,  look  when  you 
get  married;  there's  him  and  other  folks  that's  paid 
'tention  to.  Same  when  you  have  kids;  there's  the  baby 
more  important  than  you.  But  at  a  funeral  —  it's  all  on 
account  of  you  and  your  name  is  in  everybody's  mouth. 
No,  my  dear,  a  funeral  ain't  no  bad  thing  to  look  forward 
to;  not  when  you've  learned  to  look  on  the  bright  side  of 
everything,  as  you  will  before  you're  as  old  as  us." 

"I  hope  Joey  gets  well,"  said  the  young  woman, 
irrationally. 

"Ef  dey  can  eat,"  continued  Mrs.  Hansen,  "den  dey 
mebbe  alright."  And  acting  upon  this  idea  that  worthy 
woman  concocted  a  dish  of  her  favourite  blood  pudding  — 
"klub"  she  called  it  —  and  waddled  up  to  convince  Ruth 
that  nothing  was  so  good  for  a  sick  child  as  a  meal  of 
blood  pudding  early  and  often.  Other  good  women 
followed  her  example.  Despite  the  fact  that  the  grocers, 
as  usual,  had  ceased  to  give  credit  because  of  the  threaten- 
ing trouble,  there  came  a  flood  of  oranges,  bananas,  cakes, 
and  candy;  and  Sodders,  at  the  corner,  sent  up  a  bottle 
of  port  wine  with  his  compliments. 

Mr.  Bruggers  intercepted  the  wine  on  the  stairs.  He 
knew  it  wasn't  good  for  Joey. 

And  Joey  was  very  sick.    The  doctor  came  and  went, 


164  Joey  the  Dreamer 

and  so  did  Ruth.  I  stayed  pretty  much  in  the  room. 
I  had  turned  nurse  suddenly  and  clumsily,  upon  seeing 
that  Ruth  would  wear  herself  out  if  permitted.  And 
Joey  lay  in  the  damp,  warm  fever-fog  and  knew  nothing 
of  it.  He  lay  like  dead,  breathing  merely  enough  to  keep 
the  life  in  him,  while  the  fever  marshalled  its  forces  for 
the  grim  onslaught  of  the  crisis.  At  times  he  moaned. 
At  times  the  curtain  at  the  window  flopped  listlessly. 
There  was  something  similar  in  the  two  sounds.  The 
suggestion  of  helplessness  was  in  both. 

It  was  this,  Joey's  too  obvious  helplessness  against  the 
odds  against  him,  that  crumpled  Delia  that  Monday 
evening,  and  sent  her  sobbing  out  into  the  hall. 

"It  ain't  fair,  it  ain't  fair!"  she  whispered  to  Ruth. 
"The  poor  little  kid!  He  never  done  any  dirt  in  his  life. 
He'll  croak,  and  he  don't  deserve  it  at  all.  It's  a  shame." 

Delia  refused  to  accompany  Freddy  to  Electric  Park 
that  night,  though  the  temptation  hung  red  before  her 
eyes.  He  went  to  familiarize  himself  with  his  future 
audience.  She  thought  of  Binger,  and  of  his  golden 
teeth  and  his  diamond  ring,  Doussang's,  where  he  had 
taken  them,  and  of  the  temptation  that  then  had 
whispered  in  her  innermost  heart.  But  she  had  looked 
upon  Joey  recently. 

"It  wouldn't  be  right  with  Joey  so  sick,"  she  explained. 

"We  ain't  going  to  hurt  Joey,  are  we?"  demanded 
Freddy. 

"I  wouldn't  feel  right  doing  it,"  said  Delia,  but  she 
failed  to  explain  why.  Freddy  marvelled  at  the  new 
look  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  marvelled  and  was  happy 


Joey  the  Dreamer  165 

without  knowing  why.     It  was  the  mother  heart  in  Delia 
swelling  for  the  moment. 

She  wished  she  could  do  something  for  Joey.  But  Ruth 
had  told  her  that  nothing  could  be  done  just  then.  She 
wished  she  could  do  something  for  somebody.  So  many 
people  needed  it.  She  thought  of  what  a  hard  world 
it  was  for  some  people,  of  how  lucky  she  was,  after  all, 
though  she  often  had  considered  her  lot  well-nigh  unbear- 
able. She  wandered  aimlessly  down  to  the  corner.  Rine- 
hart  was  up  on  his  box  before  Sodders's,  more  virulent 
than  ever,  and  Delia  felt  inclined  to  cry  out:  "Shame 
on  you!  There's  a  sick  kid  next  door."  But  instead 
she  moved  on  and  gave  a  nickel  to  the  blind  man 
at  the  corner. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AO  Rinehart  was  "organizing." 
I  am  afraid  that  I  missed  much  of  his  activi- 
ties during  the  next  few  sweltering  days.  He 
was,  in  a  way,  the  centre  of  the  amazing  storm  that  was 
brewing;  but  the  old  habits  of  what  Dicky  called  "cold, 
mathemathical  observation"  had  deserted  me,  and  Joey, 
the  small,  was  the  absorbing  factor.  The  progress  of  the 
Little  Surprise  Party,  the  possibility  of  the  wage-cut,  and 
the  crisis  that  was  coming  out  of  them  seemed  only  of 
minor  importance  compared  with  the  problem  of  Joey's 
physical  welfare.  Joey  was  the  hope  of  the  Tenement. 
So  long  as  it  could  breed  children  like  him  there  was  hope 
—  if  they  lived.  If  they  didn't  —  there  were  Mrs.  and  Mr. 
Bruggers,  and  the  can. 

But  in  spite  of  my  negligence  it  was  impossible  to  live 
in  Clay  Court  these  days  and  not  hear  and  see  much  of 
Rinehart.  The  man  seemed  to  have  no  occupation  save 
that  of  "organizing."  Where  his  means  of  livelihood  came 
from  was  a  mystery.  When  he  slept  or  ate  likewise  was 
a  mystery.  He  might  be  seen  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning 
talking  to  a  tired  night  worker  coming  home,  and  I 
know  that  he  was  talking  in  the  crowd  that  was  turned 
out  of  Sodders's  saloon  every  morning  at  one. 

"Organize,  organize  —  everybody,"  was  his  one  slogan. 

166 


Joey  the  Dreamer  167 

He  went  through  the  tenement  by  day  and  preached 
it  to  the  out-of-works,  always  a  goodly  number  here;  by 
night  he  held  forth  to  large,  secret  meetings  that  every- 
body but  the  police  knew  about. 

"They're  teasing  you,  they're  holding  off,"  he  said  as 
the  days  went  by  and  no  wage-cut  came.  "But"  —  in  a 
voice  of  doom  —  "  it's  coming,  it's  coming,  and  we  gotto 
be  ready  for  it  when  it  comes." 

The  basement-born  Little  Surprise  Party  was  growing. 
They  had  taken  the  Hall  over  Sodders's  saloon.  The 
basement  had  become  too  small. 

The  Hall  in  reality  was  only  a  loft  on  the  top  floor  of 
the  three-story  building,  where  Sodders  had  knocked  out 
the  partitions  and  made  the  floor  all  one  room.  A  sign  on 
the  door  read: 

HALL.         WEDDINGS,  $3;    POLISH  $5. 

A  single  set  of  stairs  ran  up  from  the  floor  below  and 
there  was  a  door  at  the  rear.  Outside  of  these  there  was 
no  entrance  or  exit,  and  the  windows  were  smudged  over 
with  a  thick  coat  of  lamp-black.  Four  gas  jets  struggled 
listlessly  against  the  darkness,  and  the  air  was  the  air  of 
a  cave,  flat  and  dead. 

In  this  place  the  Little  Surprise  Party  had  its  head- 
quarters, and  from  the  little  platform  built  against  the 
rear  wall  near  the  door,  Rinehart  exhorted  his  followers 
to  organize,  organize,  organize. 

"Organization  means  salvation,"  he  explained.  "Or- 
ganization —  everybody ! " 

Then  followed  a  demonstration  of  the  good  old  wreck- 


168  Joey  the  Dreamer 

ing-crew  system  of  organizing,  a  strenuous  process 
whereby  many  a  man  was  organized  in  spite  of  his 
strongest  efforts  to  the  contrary.  The  system  is  simple, 
simple  and  effective;  and  its  demonstration  was  a  delight 
to  the  party's  ruder  members.  A  man  who  valued  his 
whole  bones  and  natural  features  had  two  courses  open 
to  him  —  leave  Clay  Court  or  become  a  Brother.  And 
moving  cost  money.  So  the  Brotherhood  grew.  Yet  it 
was  all  done  so  quietly,  systematically,  so  skilfully  that 
the  police  stool-pigeon  —  a  crippled  tobacconist  a  block 
away  on  the  Avenue  —  knew  not  a  thing  about  it.  A 
man  was  "approached"  in  his  home  one  evening. 
The  next  found  him  slipping  up  the  stairs  to  the  Hall 
and  mingling  with  the  crows  as  if  he  merely  had  been 
notified  to  attend  lodge. 

There  were  sick  faces  among  these  newcomers,  faces 
that  told  of  an  action  sorely  against  the  individual  will 
and  desire;  eyes  that  looked  reproachfully  around  as  if 
striving  to  locate  the  Force  that  had  dragged  them  into 
the  movement;  mouths  that  dropped  at  the  corners,  as 
the  mouths  of  men  who  are  much  afraid.  Yet  once 
attention  was  directed  to  these  men  they  become  the 
loudest  and  firmest  of  all,  fearful  lest  the  ban  of  sus- 
picion should  fall  upon  their  earnestness. 

However,  these  half-hearted  ones  were  greatly  in  the 
minority.  The  majority  obviously  were  with  Rinehart, 
or,  at  least,  were  under  his  spell.  He  led  them,  and  they 
followed,  yelping  at  his  heels.  No  vociferation,  no  matter 
how  grisly,  leaped  from  his  lips  but  it  had  repetition  or 
duplication  from  some  mouths  in  the  crowd.  No  hint, 


Joey  the  Dreamer  169 

no  matter  how  insane,  did  he  drop,  but  some  one  was 
ready  to  act  upon  it  at  once.  Rinehart  was  but  a 
prompter;  the  others  knew  their  lines  and  spoke  them 
after  the  cue  was  given. 

There  were  meetings  in  the  Hall  nightly.  One  was 
much  like  another.  Sometimes  a  wordy  individual  rose 
and  crossed  arguments  with  Rinehart.  Rinehart  had 
one  set  answer  for  such,  an  answer  which  evoked  deep 
belly  growls  of  approval  from  the  crowd  and  labelled  the 
upstart  definitely: 

"You're  a  white-livered  coward.     You're  afraid." 

All  except  Perkins.  Perkins  was  drinking  steadily 
since  they  had  buried  the  baby,  and  he  drank  silently  and 
alone —  a  bad  sign.  They  took  the  baby  away  in  a 
hack,  after  the  manner  of  the  Court,  and  the  little  white 
casket  rode  out  the  long  ride  on  the  knees  of  the  grim, 
bereaved  father.  His  long,  hairy  hands  hung  over 
and  gripped  the  edges  in  a  fierce,  primitive  sort  of 
fashion.  He  yielded  up  his  burden  to  the  undertaker 
with  a  scowl  on  his  face.  When  the  dirt  fell  he  put  his 
arm  around  his  wife  and  turned  away  without  a  word 
or  a  tear.  So  did  Tom  Perkins  give  back  to  earth  his 
last  born. 

When  he  came  to  the  meetings  he  shouldered  his  way 
insolently  to  a  corner,  and  leaning  against  the  wall  folded 
his  arms  and  glowered  at  the  speaker,  no  matter  who, 
through  his  bushy  brows.  A  silence  always  followed  his 
coming;  then  the  buzz  broke  out  again.  Sometimes 
Perkins  broke  the  silence.  He  would  laugh  in  Rinehart's 
face,  spit  on  the  floor  and  go  out  with  a  sneer  on  his  lips. 


170  Joey  the  Dreamer 

They  had  a  sentinel  at  the  stairway,  for  the  meetings 
were  very  secret.  He  always  stepped  far  to  one  side 
when  Perkins  came. 

But  in  action,  Rinehart  was  the  leader  of  the  Little 
Surprise  Party.  He  was  the  voice  that  spoke  the  thoughts 
of  the  crowd.  At  times  they  roared  their  approval  so 
loudly  that  the  windows  rattled  and  the  noise  flew  over 
the  Court  to  the  Tenement  like  the  hum  of  an 
angry  storm.  An  old  woman,  leaning  out  of  her  window 
said,  "  It's  a  fine  kettle  of  grief  they're  cooking  up  over 
the  way." 

"And  it's  us  will  eat  it,"  said  her  neighbour,  with  a 
babe  at  the  breast. 

"It  always  is  us.  But  the  Company  started  the  fire 
and  put  the  kettle  on.  Our  boys  are  only  throwing  in 
the  bone." 

"It'll  be  bitter  just  the  same,"  said  the  one  with  the 
child.  . 

Night  after  night  the  Party  crawled  up  the  stairway 
above  Sodders's;  night  after  night  Rinehart  twisted  the 
stick  in  the  raw  sore.  The  meetings  and  what  they  por- 
tended became  the  life  of  the  Court  after  the  day's  work 
was  done.  Often  they  lasted  far  along  toward  morning. 

The  Presidential  election  was  a  side  issue.  The  Sur- 
prise had  overshadowed  everything.  Even  the  sporting 
extras  went  unread.  One  subject  monopolized  all 
attention. 

The  children  played  a  new  game  in  the  street;  one  was 
forced  to  be  "Company,"  and  the  rest  pelted  him  with 
anything  they  could  lay  hands  on. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  171 

Verily,  those  were  hectic  days  in  Clay  Court! 

At  times,  when  Joey  slept,  we  leaned  from  the  window 
and  listened  to  Rinehart  at  the  corner. 

"They  like  it,"  said  Ruth  sadly.  "They  can  believe 
that.  But  not  what  I  told  them." 

"You  cannot  help  that." 

"No,  no,  not  by  talking  here.  This  isn't  the  place 
to  begin.  There  is  too  much  noise  here,  and  the  little 
dark  rooms  are  too  dark.  They  blind  the  people  who 
live  in  them.  They  cannot  see,  they  cannot  hear.  They 
are  too  heavily  loaded.  They  can't  look  up  —  no, 
I  see  it  now.  This  isn't  the  place  to  begin." 

"Where  then?" 

"At  the  other  end.  At  the  top.  With  the  people  who 
must  lift  the  load;  who  aren't  loaded  themselves.  They 
can  do  it.  These  can't.  Then  these  will  hear  and  see." 

"But    what ?" 

"We  must  tell  them,  the  other  people,  our  people, 
about  the  load." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  Bruggers  —  oh !  the  Bruggers  were  living  in 
clover  these  days,  all  on  account  of  Joey.  It 
is  one  thing  to  have  a  son  fall  sick  on  you  when 
you  lose  his  wages,  but  quite  another  when  Providence 
places  him  in  the  hands  of  one  who  would  rather  hand 
over  good  two-dollar  bills  than  listen  to  a  parent's 
bibulous  lamentations.  I  am  afraid  I  proved  a  gold  mine 
to  Mrs.  Bruggers.  She  was  a  diligent  miner.  Her  best 
manoeuvre  was  to  come  tramping  up  into  the  hallway 
outside  of  Joey's  room  and  shatter  the  quiet  with  her 
large,  insistent  voice. 

"I  will  see  him,  I  tell  you;  I  will  see  him.  Ain't  he 
my  own  flesh  and  blood?  Ain't  I  got  right  to  see  my 
own  flesh  and  blood?  Lemme  see  'im,  I  tell  you,  lemme 
see  sim!" 

This  she  would  bellow  loud  enough  to  disturb  the 
entire  top  floor,  knowing  that  absolute  quiet  had  been 
prescribed  for  Joey.  The  next  step  would  be  to  halt 
her  and  explain  that  the  racket  would  hurt  the  boy. 
Furthermore,  she  was  being  paid  to  leave  him  alone. 

"The  money's  all  gone,"  shrieks  Mrs.  Bruggers. 

"Here!     For  heaven's  sake,  take  this  and  shut  up." 

Another  transfer  of  a  bank-note  to  Mrs.  Bruggers,  and 
she,  carefully  hiding  the  money,  would  blubber: 

172 


Joey  the  Dreamer  173 

"I'm  a  reas'nable  woman,  Mr.  Lord.  Show  me  any- 
body says  I  ain't  reas'nable.  Anybody  does  the  right 
thing  by  me  I  don't  bother  'em.  But  they  has  got  to 
be  right." 

Then  downstairs  to  where  Mr.  Bruggers  sat  waiting, 
and 

"Bruggers!     Wash  out  the  can.     Quick." 

Mr.  Bruggers,  too,  in  some  mysterious  fashion  seamed 
to  have  secured  funds,  and  the  result  was  all  that  the  pre- 
cious pair  ever  had  dreamed  of.  They  were  happy  from 
waking  time  to  sleeping  time,  happy  and  unperturbed 
by  the  storm  that  brewed  around  them.  So  ideal  was 
their  condition,  from  their  own  peculiar  point  of  view, 
that  Mrs.  Bruggers  would  have  been  hard  put  to  find 
anything  for  which  Mr.  Bruggers  might  be  given  his  daily 
scoldings  had  it  not  been  that  Bruggers  during  the  last 
few  days  had  become  one  of  the  most  ardent  of  the  little 
Surprise  Party's  supporters.  Never  an  opportunity 
now  went  by  but  that  he  lifted  up  his  voice  and  chanted 
its  principles,  strictly  a  la  Rinehart.  Had  Mrs.  Bruggers 
paused  to  indulge  in  a  little  exercise  in  the  useful  faculty 
of  thought  she  might  have  established  the  rather  obvious 
connection  between  Mr.  Bruggers 's  mysterious  funds  and 
his  sudden  enthusiasm  for  Rinehart. 

But  Mrs.  Bruggers  was  seeing  the  world  through  rosy, 
though  foamy,  glasses  in  these  days,  and  such  a  vision  is 
not  conducive  to  the  critical  mood.  She  assailed  Bruggers 
mightily  whenever  he  opened  fris  mouth,  but  that  was 
merely  force  of  habit,  for  Mrs.  Bruggers,  during  these 
days  was  constantly  in  a  condition  in  which  she  loved 


174  Joey  the  Dreamer 

the  whole  world  and  generously  invited  her  friends  up 
into  the  kitchen  of  the  third  floor  rear  to  share  her  over- 
flowing cup  of  bottled  cheer. 

Over  in  the  Hall  a  terrible  problem  was  being  dealt 
with  in  terrible  fashion;  but  Mrs.  Bruggers  and  her  little 
coterie  sat  in  the  kitchen  and  demonstrated  the  lightness 
and  ease  of  life  when  one  regards  it  through  glasses  rosy 
and  foamy,  and  Friday  evening,  it  happened,  was  one  of 
the  rosiest  of  these  foamy  events.  The  company  was 
made  up  of  Mrs.  Rambo,  widow,  Mr.  Dolan,  widower; 
Mrs.  Hansen,  midwife,  and  a  couple  of  others  from  the 
Tenement.  Mr.  Bruggers  poured  with  great  success,  Mrs. 
Bruggers  talked,  and  a  pleasant  time  was  being  had  by  all. 

"The  trouble  with  most  folks,"  said  Mrs.  Brugggers 
apropos  of  the  great  topic  of  the  day,  which  Bruggers  had 
brought  up, "  is  that  they're  too  particular  about  what 
luck  brings  them.  Ain't  satisfied  with  what  they  get. 
Take  it  as  it  comes,  make  the  best  of  everything;  that's 
what  I  say.  You'll  find  you  ain't  so  worst  off  after  all. 
Now,  what  would  most  folks  have  done  and  how  would 
they  have  took  on  if  they'd  been  Joey's  ma  when  he  gets 
sick?  What  do  I  do?  'Make  the  best  of  it,'  sez  I;  and 
Joey's  been  paying  four  times  his  reg'lar  wages  ever 
since.  Yes,  my  dears,  there  ain't  no  cloud  so  black  but 
what  it's  got  a  silver  lining  somewhere  about  it." 

And  Mrs.  Bruggers  jingled  a  pocketful  of  change  to 
reassure  herself  that  it  was  coined  silver  at  that. 

"That's  sense,"  said  Mr.  Dolan  in  his  well-known  bull- 
frog tone  and  manner.  "That's  sense.  Folks  what  is 
too  partic'lar  soon  finds  where  they  gets  off  at." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  175 

"I  dunno  who  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Rambo,  looking 
far  away. 

"I  ain't  saying  I  mean  anybody,"  rumbled  Mr.  Dolan. 
"But  when  you  chases  your  legs  off  to  get  somebody  a 
job  in  a  rest'runt,  and  then  they  won't  take  it  because 
the  hours  is  too  long,  and  the  wages  ain't  high  enough, 
and  the  boss  is  a  Greek,  it's  time  to  begin  to  guess  at 
what  some  folks  expects." 

"I  never  could  stand  for  Greeks,"  said  Mrs.  Rambo, 
tossing  her  frizzled  head.  "Mrs.  Hansen,  could  you  ever 
stand  for  Greeks?" 

"I  donno  en'ting  'bout  dem,"  said  the  good-natured 
midwife.  "I  don'  have  en'ting  to  do  wid  dem.  Dere 
en't  no  Greek  vimmen  in  dis  contry." 

"I  know  a  case,"  slowly  continued  Mr.  Dolan,  as  if 
there  had  been  no  interruption,  "know  a  case  where  a 
widow  woman  got  a  free  Christmas  basket,  and  she  wasn't 
satisfied.  There  was  pork,  'n'  beef,  'n'  soup  meat,  'n' 
chicken,  'n'  tea,  'n'  coffee,  'n'  flour,  'n'  sugar,  'n'  beans, 
'n'  p'tatoes,  'n'  sausage,  'n'  cel'ry,  'n'  raisins,  'n*  —  an' 
a  duck,  an'  a  order  for  two  bucks  on  the  coal  man;  an' 
she  strips  the  paper  off  of  it,  and  pulls  out  the  pork,  'n' 
beef,  'n'  soup  meat,  'n'  chicken,  'n'  tea,  'n'  coffee,  'n' 
flour,  'n'  sugar,  'n'  beans,  'n'  p'tatoes,  'n'  sausage,  'n' 
cel'ry,  'n'  raisins,  'n'  the  duck,  and  the  order  on  the  coal 
man,  and  fires  'em  on  the  table  and  sez, '  What!  No 
pickled  pig's  feet? ' 

Mr.  Dolan  croaked  suggestively,  and  upon  being 
supplied  with  what  his  being  craved,  continued : 

"And  then  to  show  you  how  it  goes  with  such  folks, 


176  Joey  the  Dreamer 

down  she  goes  to  the  coal  man  an'  trades  in  the  order  — 
eight  bits  for  coal  'n'  wood,  an'  eight  bits  for  a  half  ticket 
in  the  Honduras  Lottery  what  the  coal  man  was  selling, 
an'  when  the  drawing  was  out  her  number  wins  next  to 
capital  prize,  an'  what  has  she  done?  Gone  an'  traded 
the  ticket  off  for  a  mess  of  them  damn  pigs'  feet!" 

Most  of  the  group  nodded  sagely  at  this  horrible 
example. 

"I  don't  like  pickled  pigs'  feet,"  sniffed  Mrs.  Rambo. 
"I  never  did." 

"Pickles  pig  feet  is  good  ven  dey  are  pickle  right,"  said 
Mrs.  Hansen. 

"The  thing  is,"  said  Mrs.  Bruggers,  "they're  better'n 
nothing  when  you're  real  hungry." 

"I  ain't  hungry,"  said  Mr.  Dolan.     "I'm  thirsty." 

"The  question,"  suggested  Mr.  Bruggers,  delicately, 
"ain't  pigs'  feet,  but  is  our  friends  ready  for  another 
little  nip.  Eh,  my  love?" 

"Always  ready,"  croaked  Dolan,  "always  ready." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  down  another  drop,"  protested  Mrs. 
Rambo,  delicate  lady  that  she  was. 

"She  can  drink  me  blind,"  said  Mr.  Dolan. 

"Mr.  Dolan!"  protested  the  lady. 

"What  I  say,"  said  Mrs.  Bruggers,  taking  a  bottle 
of  beer  from  under  the  running  tap,  "what  I  say 
is,  you  never  know  what  you  can  do  until  you've 
tried  — oh-h!" 

The  bottle  dropped  from  her  fingers,  her  hands  went 
up  to  her  face,  and  she  started  back  as  if  she  had 
seen  a  ghost. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  177 

"My  Gawd!"  she  whispered  with  a  great  labouring 
of  breath.  "What  was  that?" 

"What?"  they  asked,  following  her  gaze  toward 
the  hall. 

"Didn't  you  hear  it?" 

Her  uncanny  alarm  and  the  tone  of  her  voice  had 
sobered  them. 

"Hear  what?"  said  Dolan,  faintly,  after  awhile. 
"There  wasn't  nothing." 

"Oh!"  screamed  Mrs.  Bruggers,  trembling.  "There 
it  goes  again.  It's  Joey,"  she  whispered.  "It's  Joey  — 
Yes;  I'm  your  ma,  Joey.  I'm  coming,  I'm  coming, 
Joey!" 

And  going  as  if  she  had  been  drawn  by  strong  hands, 
Mrs.  Bruggers  ran  clamouring  out  into  the  hall  and  up 
the  stairs  to  the  room  where  Joey  lay  sick  unto  death. 

"  Now  what  d'you  suppose  got  into  the  old  lady?" 
queried  Mr.  Bruggers,  as  he  recovered  the  dropped 
bottle.  "I,  for  one,  know  there  wasn't  anything  to 
hear,  and  she  never  had  the  snakes  before." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  crisis  had  come  for  Joey. 
As  the  doctor  had  said,  the  fever  had  been  in 
him  for  a  week  before  his  collapse,  so  there  was 
little  left  for  Joey  to  fight  with,  but  after  the  fight  had 
begun  in  earnest  he  surprised  us  all  by  the  tenacity  with 
which  he  battled. 

"Not  stamina  enough  to  fit  out  an  able-bodied  cat," 
said  the  doctor,  "and  still  he's  holding  his  own.  It's  a 
queer  world,  my  masters,  and  the  queerest  thing  in  it  is 
the  way  some  people  refuse  to  die." 

This  was  the  situation  with  Joey.  Cheated  out  of  all 
things  that  make  life  worth  living,  he  refused  to  be 
cheated  out  of  life  itself.  The  clean  little  soul,  although 
born  into  a  plant  rotten  with  the  seed  of  two  generations 
of  poverty,  struggled  its  way  up  from  the  back  pit  of 
fever  and  gasped  for  existence  in  a  way  that  would  not 
be  denied. 

"My  child,"  one  might  have  called  Joey,  but  the  term 
would  have  been  wrong.  He  was  no  child.  He  never 
had  been  a  child;  he  never  could  be.  Childhood  is  one  of 
the  things  that  such  as  he  do  not  know,  one  of  the  things 
that  fate  takes  out  of  their  world  when  it  places  them 
where  they  are.  Their  lives  are  under  the  law  of  fang 
and  claw  from  their  toddling  days.  They  know  no 
years  of  tenderness,  they  have  no  protected  period  to 

178 


Joey  the  Dreamer  179 

guarantee  their  growth  to  maturity.  The  wonder  is  that 
they  live;  the  bitter  question  they  often  ask  themselves 
is  "Why  were  we  born?"  But  here  Joey  lay  on  my  bed,  a 
little  streak  of  skin  and  bone  with  a  big  head,  and  fought 
against  the  devils  of  fever  as  if  every  one  of  his  living 
hours  had  been  a  time  of  joy  and  happiness. 

"It  is  a  queer  world,  my  masters."  The  doctor  was 
a  cynic,  but  sometimes  he  spoke  the  truth. 

As  the  fever  rose  and  ebbed  and  rose  again,  the  boy 
rambled  aloud  in  the  strange  worlds  of  darkness  and 
unconsciousness;  and  there  was  a  world  of  revelation  in 
his  queer ly  mumbled  words.  Sometimes  he  was  at  his 
work  in  these  wanderings.  Again,  he  was  in  the  Tene- 
ment. Two  horrors  rode  him  and  drove  him  to  the  brink 
of  desperation  —  the  fear  of  the  Superintendent,  and  the 
idea  that  he  had  lost  his  job  and  was  bringing  the  sad 
news  home. 

"Oh,  how  could  I  help  it?"  He  was  in  the  kitchen  of 
the  third  floor  rear  then,  facing  his  father  and  mother. 

"  The  Supe  had  it  in  for  me.  He  did,  I  tell  you.  I 
didn't  loaf.  There  —  there,  he's  after  me  now.  Stop 
him  —  stop  him " 

The  wet,  quivering  little  body  would  start  up  in  a 
paroxysm  of  indescribable  terror,  and  subside  as  Ruth's 
arm  went  around  him  and  her  voice  calmed  him  with 
words  of  reassurance. 

He  debated  with  himself,  at  times,  what  his  parents' 
course  would  be  when  they  found  that  he  was  not 
working. 

"They'll  send  you  on  the  kip,  of  course,"  he  muttered. 


180  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"What  d'you  expect?  You'll  have  to  go  on  the  kip 
until  you  get  another  job." 

The  horrors  of  homelessness  in  the  streets  ran  before 
his  eyes  and  he  burst  out  into  awful  sobs.  Then  the 
Superintendent  was  after  him  again. 

"I  didn't  quit  before  Six,  honest,  I  didn't.  I'll  work 
faster,  yessir." 

So  it  went,  day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  while 
Ruth  and  I  alternated  in  playing  nurse,  though  Ruth  was 
in  the  room  most  of  the  time.  He  listened  only  to  her 
voice.  Others  spoke  to  him  and  he  shuddered  as  if  they 
hurt  him. 

"He  has  a  chance,"  said  the  doctor.  "Who  would 
have  thought  it?" 

When  the  crisis  came  this  hot,  sulphurous  Friday  night, 
not  a  breath  of  wind  was  stirring  and  the  air  in  the  sick 
room  was  enough  to  make  one  pant.  Ruth,  the  doctor, 
and  I  sat  and  waited  for  the  outcome  of  the  crucial 
minutes,  and  Joey  babbled  and  tossed  aimlessly. 

"It's  coming  now,"  said  the  doctor,  as  the  boy  grew 
quiet.  "Here's  the  test." 

A  tiny  fuzz  of  perspiration  broke  out  on  the  white, 
tight  forehead.  Suddenly,  and  with  no  prelude,  Joey 
broke  out: 

"Mother,   mother!" 

The  cry,  although  it  was  a  cry,was  so  faint  that  it  could 
scarcely  have  been  heard  farther  than  a  whisper.  The 
idea  that  it  could  have  reached  down  to  the  third  floor 
rear  seems  preposterous,  yet  at  that  very  instant 
occurred  the  disconcerting  rupture  of  Mrs.  Bruggers's 


Joey  the  Dreamer  181 

rosy  little  party  which  we  already  have  noted.  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Bruggers  did  hear  something;  perhaps  not.  At 
all  event  there  came  heavy,  unsteady  steps  on  the  stairs, 
a  steam-like  puffing,  a  knock,  and  Mrs.  Bruggers, 
redder,  more  puffed,  more  "happy,"  than  ever,  stood 
in  the  doorway  with  the  tears  glistening  upon  her 
fat,  red  cheeks. 

"She's  jagged,  you  fool,"  said  Joey  to  himself.  "Don't 
think  she  cares  to  see  you.  Stop  your  yelling." 

Mrs.  Bruggers  looked  at  the  doctor,  at  Ruth,  at  me, 
seeking  to  read  in  our  faces  the  news  she  feared  to  hear. 

"Is  he  —  is  he  worse?"  She  begged.  Something  in 
the  fat,  red  face  drove  Ruth  to  her  feet. 

"  My  Joey ! "  sobbed  the  woman  in  the  doorway.  "  My 
poor  little  Joey!" 

Ruth  sprang  to  her  side  and  placed  an  arm  around  the 
shaking  shoulders.  Then  Mrs.  Bruggers  broke  down. 

"Tell  me  —  tell  me  honest  —  if  he's  going  to  —  "  her 
lips  faltered  at  the  dread  word  and  she  frankly  sobbed 
out  her  fear  on  Ruth's  shoulder. 

"We  still  hope  he  isn't,"  whispered  Ruth.  "There  is 
hope." 

"My  little  Joey!  The  only  one  I  ever  had  that  lived. 
If  he  goes  what'll  I  do,  what'll  I  do?" 

Ruth  spoke  consolingly. 

"Perhaps  I  ain't  been  a  good  mother,  Miss  Ruth, 
perhaps  I  ain't.  But  Lord  knows  I  had  my  troubles, 
miss  —  an*  I  been  careless.  But  I  can't  stand  to  lose 
him.  You'll  save  him  for  me  if  you  can,  won't  you? 
I  —  I'm  gone  if  you  don't.  He  —  he's  kep'  me  out  o* 


182  Joey  the  Dreamer 

the  gutter,  Joey  has.  Nothing  else  —  His  blessid  little 
eyes!  Joey!" 

The  child  had  risen  to  his  knees  and  was  staring  at  her 
in  sheer  surprise. 

"Joey!"  She  stumbled  toward  the  bed  and  held  forth 
her  arms  to  him  in  supplication,  as  if  begging  his  for- 
giveness. "Joey!  Don't  yuh  know  me?  Don't  you 
know  me,  Joey?  Ah,  Joey,  Joey,  don't  look  at  me  that 
way?  Don't  you  know  yer  ma?" 

The  little  fingers  fumbled  at  the  covers  and  the  weary 
brows  puckered  as  if  the  mind  likewise  was  fumbling  with 
a  problem.  The  lips  opened  and  parted,  and  the  quicken- 
ing breath  was  all  that  passed  through  them. 

"Joey!  For  Gawd's  sake,  don't,  Joey!  Don't  look  at 
me  so." 

"God!"  said  Joey  in  awe-stricken  whisper.  "Do  you 
know  'bout  Him,  too?" 

"Oh,  Joey,  Joey!  Look's  if  you  knew  me;  yer  ma, 
Joey.  Don't  you  remember  me?" 

"Tell  pa,"  whispered  Joey.  "Tell  'em  all  — if  you 
know  'bout  Him." 

"He's  going  —  he's  dying!"  screamed  the  woman  and 
hid  her  face  in  the  bed. 

"Tell  'em  all!"  cried  Joey,  trying  to  rise  to  his  feet. 
"Tell  'em  *' —  He  paused  and  turned  sanely  upon  Ruth, 
a  new  light  in  his  eyes,  a  new  peace  settling  upon  his 
face.  " Miss  Ruth,"  he  cried  joyously,  "Tell  Old  Mag  — 
tell  her  I  could  make  the  pitcher  now!" 

He  sank  slowly  back  upon  her  arm. 

"Lie  down,  Joey." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  183 

"Heh?" 

"Lie   down." 

He  snuggled  weakly  against  the  pillow  upon  which 
she  laid  him,  his  face  to  the  wall. 

"Yes;  I'm  tired,"  he  murmured  contentedly.  "I'll 
lay  down." 

The  woman,  with  her  face  on  the  bed,  sobbed  loudly; 
doors  opened  and  slammed  about;  speech  sounded  in  the 
halls;  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  on  the  walk  outside.  But 
in  the  midst  of  the  medley  we  were  able  to  hear  one  sound 
that  made  our  hearts  leap  with  thanksgiving.  Joey  was 
breathing  softly  and  evenly,  the  little  chest  rising  and 
falling  regularly,  as  a  child  breathes  when  he  is  tired  and 
regaining  life  in  blessed  restful  slumber. 

"He  came  through  in  great  shape,"  said  the  doctor, 
later.  "The  crisis  is  over.  Now,  if  he's  got  any  stamina 
and  doesn't  have  a  relapse,  the  poor  little  devil  will  live." 

It  grew  quiet  in  the  Tenement  and  in  the  sick  room. 
The  lights  went  out;  rooms  and  halls  grew  dark  and 
quiet.  The  talking  and  laughter  and  quarrelling  ceased. 
A  slamming  door  became  an  event;  likewise  a  foot  on  the 
stairs.  In  the  sick  room  only  the  steady  breathing  of 
the  child  was  heard,  while  at  his  side  Ruth  kept  silent 
vigil.  A  fly  buzzed  droningly  around  the  light,  dashing 
in  and  out  of  the  darkness,  its  noise  and  motion 
monumental  in  the  absolute  quietude. 

The  time  passed,  and  Joey,  struggling  back  toward 
life,  returned  temporarily  to  the  world  of  the 
conscious. 

"Miss  Ruth."     His  whisper  was  as  distraught  as  that 


184  Joey  the  Dreamer 

of  a  child  hiding  from  punishment.  "Do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  die?" 

"No,   Joey." 

"I  don'  know.  I  feel  funny.  Little  while  ago  I  was 
way  out  —  way  out  somewhere  —  way  out.  It  was 
awful  dark  there.  An'  I  was  all  alone,  an'  I  was  going 
some  place  way  out  in  the  dark,  where  I  couldn't  see  — 
all  alone  —  like  jumping  off  some  place  by  myself." 
He  reached  up  and  found  her  hand. 

"Oh,  I  don'  wanto  die  and  go  out  there  all  alone  in  the 
dark.  It's  too  tough.  I'm  scared !  Don'  —  don'  let 
me  go,  Miss  Ruth.  Please,  please.  I  wanto  stay.  Oh, 
I  wanto  stay,  so  bad,  Miss  Ruth!" 

"You  will,  Joey;  you  will  stay  now." 

Her  voice  seemed  to  calm  him,  and  he  lay  blinking 
up  at  her. 

"What  was  the  dark,  Miss  Ruth?  That  where  people 
go  when  they  die?  No;  no,  it  couldn't  be  that,  'cause  I 
was  all  alone,  and  they's  lots  died  before  me.  Where  did 
they  all  go,  Miss  Ruth?  They  didn't  send  me  away  off 
there  myself,  did  they?" 

"Go  to  sleep,  Joey;  please  go  to  sleep,  and  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it  when  you  awaken." 

"Yes'm,"  said  Joey,  curling  up  obediently.     "Yes'm." 

It  was  bright,  sunny  Saturday  afternoon  when  Joey 
awoke.  A  breeze  was  coming  in  at  the  window,  and  Ruth 
was  sitting  at  his  side. 

"Am  I  going  to  get  well?"  he  asked  at  once. 

"Yes;  surely." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  185 

"Wonder  if  they'll  gimme  my  job  back?" 

He  lay  staring  up  at  her  and  while  Ruth  was  fram- 
ing a  satisfactory  reply  some  one  cried  out  excitedly  in 
the  Court. 

"What's  that  racket  about?"  demanded  Joey. 

Ruth  stepped  to  the  window.  A  single  voice  made 
itself  heard  above  the  new  tumult. 

"The  cut's  a  cinch,  now!"  it  cried.  "There's  a  piece 
that  says  so  in  the  paper." 

"Gee!"  said  Joey.  "Now  I'll  have  to  hunt  another 
job  anyhow." 


CHAPTER  XX 

IT  MUST  be  a  mistake.     Of  course  it  is  a  mistake. 
They  won't  do  it.     They  cannot.*' 
Ruth  leaned   out  of    the  window,  listening  to  the 
boy  below  shouting  his  papers. 

"It  is  a  mistake,"  she  repeated.  "A  mere,  mistaken 
guess.  It  never  will  be  so." 

Of  course  not!  The  idea  was  preposterous.  I  knew 
that,  now  that  I  knew  a  little  of  Clay  Court.  Anybody 
would  have  known  it  who  had  lived  there  for  a  little 
while.  Men  —  cultured,  intelligent  men,  of  the  sort 
who  directed  the  business  affairs  of  the  Consolidated 
Factory — didn't  do  such  things  in  this  enlightened  days. 
They  couldn't. 

"Of  course  it  is  a  mistake,"  said  I.  "The  boys  are 
only  trying  to  sell  papers." 

To  reassure  myself  I  hurried  down  to  the  corner  news- 
stand and  bought  a  paper.  The  boy  had  shouted  the 
news  as  the  paper  gave  it,  but  the  sheet  was  one  of  those 
that  substitute  big  wood  type  and  red  ink  for  intelli- 
gence and  veracity.  The  heads  for  our  item  covered 
nearly  a  square  foot;  the  story  itself  took  up  a  square 
inch  or  two.  Short  as  it  was,  however,  it  told  the  dreaded 
news  in  a  manner  that  carried  conviction.  It  ran  as 
follows  : 

186 


Joey  the  Dreamer  187 

FACTORY  BARONS  TO  VOTE  WAGE-CUT 

CONSOLIDATED  FACTORY  ANNOUNCES  BIG 
SLICE  OFF  WORKERS'  PAY 

It  is  rumoured  in  certain  quarters  of  financial  circles 
that  well-known  authorities  are  said  to  have  predicted  that 
the  much  discussed  wage-cut,  said  to  have  been  long  con- 
templated by  the  directors  of  the  Consolidated  Factory  Com- 
pany, is  to  be  made.  It  is  expected  that  at  the  special 
meeting  of  directors  to  be  held  at  three  this  afternoon 
a  vote  on  this  matter  will  be  taken.  Those  who  know 
predict  that  the  vote  will  be  in  favour  of  a  decrease  in  the 
wages  of  the  thousands  of  workers  employed  in  the  great 
Consolidated  plants. 

I  smiled  reminiscently.  Good,  old  "rumoured"  and 
"said  to  be!"  When  news  merely  was  rumoured  or 
said  to  be  in  this  sheet  it  never  happened  at  all  in  the 
real  newspapers. 

But  this  was  an  exception.  Another  sheet,  a  depend- 
able one,  came  to  hand.  The  item  was  not  displayed 
prominently  here,  but  its  message,  authoritatively 
stated,  was  the  same;  the  news  had  leaked  out  that  the 
directors  would  vote  the  cut  in  wages. 

"But,  oh!  they  can't,  they  can't,  if  they  know," 
cried  Ruth.  "You  know  they  cannot." 

No,  of  course,  they  couldn't.  It  was  too  raw.  They 
couldn't,  if  they  knew.  The  trouble  was  that  they 
didn't  know. 

"You'll  have  to  tell  them,"  I  said  to  Ruth.  "It's 
the  only  thing  to  do." 

Followed  a  rush  over  into  the  city.  At  two-thirty  I 
found  Dicky  Clews  breakfasting  at  the  club.  He  was 
a  hearty  soul,  Dicky. 


188  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Hello,  old  man.  What's  hurry  about?  Say,  come 
fishing  with  us,  will  you?  The  bunch  leaves  for  the 
Temagami  country  this  eve.  Bill  Jenney's  private 
car.  You  know  what  Bill  is.  Grand  trip.  We're  — 
Hello!  Something  wrong?" 

"Many  things,  Dicky.  Are  you  going  to  attend  the 
meeting  of  Consolidated  Factory  directors  at  three  this 
afternoon?" 

"So  I  am,  so  I  am,"  muttered  Dicky.  "Nearly 
forgot.  Good  thing  you  spoke.  But  —  why  the  falling- 
market  face,  old  man?" 

"Then,"  said  I,  "if  you  have  influence,  which  you 
have,  and  if  I  have  your  friendship,  which  I  want,  in 
the  name  of  all  you  hope  for,  arrange  to  let  Miss  Ruth 
Arthur  speak  to  the  assembled  board  for  a  few  minutes 
before  the  meeting  is  called.  She  has  something  to 
tell  you  that  you  all  need  to  hear.  Go  on,  now,  Dicky. 
Do  this  if  you  never  do  anything  again." 

It  was  next  to  impossible  to  surprise  Dicky. 

/'Miss  Arthur  —  speak  —  board?  Certainly,  old  man. 
Anything,  anything  to  take  that  look  off  your  face." 

The  Directors'  Room  of  the  Consolidated  Factory 
Company  was  done  in  dark  mahogany  after  a  fashion 
that  made  even  tiresome  meetings  a  pleasure.  It  was 
in  a  down-town  building  many  miles  away  from  the 
Factory.  From  the  windows  one  had  a  view  of  a  park 
across  the  street,  and  in  the  distance  the  lake,  fine,  blue, 
open  and  free,  sprinkled  with  white-sailed  yachts  and 
black  funneled  steamers,  rested  the  eyes  with  a  pleasant 


Joey  the  Dreamer  189 

suggestion  of  the  limitless  beauties  of  the  grand  old 
world  that  it  is,  to  be  sure. 

There  was  an  almost  cathedral  atmosphere  to  the  room. 
It  was  opened  only  on  the  occasion  of  a  Directors'  meeting, 
and  so  secluded  and  sequestered  was  it,  so  carefully 
guarded  against  the  intrusion  of  noise  or  disturbance, 
that  the  powerful,  brilliant  crew  that  gathered  here  on 
these  occasions  might  well  have  been  a  canonical  assem- 
blage, Bishops  of  the  New  Religion,  come  together 
for  the  purpose  of  devising  new  intricacies  for  the  worship 
of  the  munificent  god  Success.  Sound  the  hymn  softly, 
swing  the  censers  slowly.  The  doors  swing  open.  The 
procession  files  in.  The  doors  are  closed.  The  Grand 
Mogul  chairman  takes  his  seat,  and  the  service  is  on. 

And  what  a  service!  What  worshippers!  Worship- 
pers such  as  the  world  never  saw  before.  Great  men, 
grand  men,  but  for  the  time  being  helpless  slaves  in 
their  unquestioning  allegiance  to  the  power  and  righteous- 
ness of  their  god.  Stand  back  with  bared  head!  The 
gavel  falls,  the  meeting  comes  to  order.  Twenty  of 
the  most  powerful  men  in  the  country  are  going  to  search 
their  brains,  their  hearts,  and  their  very  souls  for  ways 
and  means  to  further  the  profitable  spread  of  the  only 
religion  their  world  will  let  them  know.  Twenty  men, 
representing  twenty  fortunes,  all  swearing  to  one  symbol: 
the  Dollar.  Twenty  brains,  the  finest  products  of  evo- 
lution, and  not  one  of  them  near  enough  to  the  meaning 
of  life  to  have  one  thought  of  more  importance  than 
the  creation  of  more  wealth  by  the  already  impossibly 
large  fortunes  that  they  control ! 


190  Joey  the  Dreamer 

What!  A  thought  of  more  importance?  Cast  out 
the  heretic!  Close  and  lock  the  sacred  doors!  Cast 
all  such  blasphemers  out  of  the  sacred  precincts  of  this 
chamber,  out  in  the  darkness  where  he  may  ponder  over 
the  solemn  spectacle  going  on  within,  and  curse,  or 
laugh,  according  to  how  the  gods  have  gifted  him  with 
a  sense  of  humour! 

Odd,  very  odd,  that  in  such  a  place  should  be  settled 
how  much  Clay  Court  might  eat  for  breakfast! 

On  the  afternoon  of  this  same  Saturday  when  Joey 
came  back  to  the  land  of  the  living,  Dicky  Clews  rose 
from  his  seat  of  honour  before  the  chairman  with  a 
paper  in  his  hand,  and  begged  for  a  moment  of  informal 
speech  to  the  Board  of  Directors  of  the  Consolidated 
Factory  Company. 

"I  have  a  personal  request  to  make,"  said  he.  "It's 
a  rotten  nuisance.  Mr.  Lord,  you  know,  John  Lord, 
has  mesmerized  me  into  doing  it.  There  is  a  young 
woman  —  Miss  Ruth  Arthur.  Some  of  you  know  her. 
You  all  know  her  gov'nor.  She's  one  of  us,  you  know, 
one  of  our  kind.  She's  all  right.  She  —  she  wants  to 
talk  to  us  for  a  few  minutes  this  afternoon  about  —  I 
don't  know  what  about.  Awful  nuisance,  as  I  say. 
She  does  something  at  a  settlement  house,  or  something 
in  that  line,  you  know.  I  didn't  want  to  get  let  in  for 
this,  but  hang  it!  I  couldn't  help  it.  Lord  insisted  on 
it;  said  it  would  be  the  best  investment  we'd  ever  made 
of  our  valuable  time.  All  that  sort  of  thing. 

"  If  she  wasn't  one  of  our  kind  —  impossible,  of  course. 
As  she  is  —  daughter  of  old  Doctor  Arthur,  you  know  — 


Joey  the  Dreamer  191 

very  safe  and  sane  —  and  only  a  few  minutes  —  I'm 
afraid  I'll  have  to  insist,  you  know,  that  we  give  her 
those  few  minutes  right  now  before  we  get  down  to 
business.  Thanks,  all  of  you." 

It  was  one  of  the  few  decent  things  Dicky  Clews  had 
done  since  he  was  a  thin,  straight  school-boy,  unpowerful 
and  unspoiled.  Perhaps  he  thought  of  that  same  clean 
boyhood  then;  perhaps  it  was  only  his  good  nature 
that  had  driven  him  to  the  mark.  But  the  effect  was 
the  same,  for  the  name  of  the  Clews'  dollars  was  great 
in  the  directorate,  and  after  a  perfunctory  motion 
and  vote  Ruth  slipped  through  the  quietly  opened  door, 
the  door  closed  behind  her,  and  she  stood  facing  the 
conclave,  a  little  strip  of  a  woman,  mostly  white  face 
and  living  eyes. 

"Miss  Arthur,  this  is  a  pleasure,  indeed."  The 
courtly  white-haired  chairman  arose  and  bowed  earnestly. 
"May  I  offer  you  the  chair?" 

"You  are  kind,  very  kind.  I  will  not  trouble  you." 
She  remained  standing  near  the  door.  Her  eyes  ran 
over  each  face  before  her.  She  was  looking  for  something 
in  each  face,  but  it  wasn't  there.  And  Dicky  Clews 
saw  that  she  was  disappointed,  and  he  was  wonder- 
ing why  when  she  began  to  speak;  and  the  fervour  in 
her  low  tones  drove  the  idle  conjecture  out  of  his  head 
and  riveted  his  attention  along  with  that  of  every 
man  in  the  room. 

"Dear  brothers,"  said  Ruth,  "you  are  very  kind  to 
listen  to  me,  and  I  won't  take  up  much  of  your  time. 
I  want  to  tell  you  about  Clay  Court.  It's  a  place  that 


192  Joey  the  Dreamer 

you  ought  to  know  about;  you  control  it  body  and 
soul." 

Then  she  told  them  something  about  Clay  Court, 
about  how  its  people  worked  in  the  Factory,  and  some- 
thing about  how  they  lived. 

"You  have  heard  of  these  things  before.  Stories 
have  been  printed  in  the  papers,  and  speakers  have 
quoted  figures  to  you.  But  you  never  have  known  — 
never  have  known  what  it  all  meant.  You  never  have 
known  that  it  is  so,  that  such  things  exist  over  there 
across  the  river.  I  say  you  never  have  known,  brothers, 
or  there  would  have  been  an  end  to  it  all  long  ago.  You 
would  have  put  an  end  to  it,  for  the  sake  of  your  own 
blessed  peace  of  mind.  And  now,  not  knowing  what 
it  means,  you  are  responsible  for  it  all.  You  are  the 
thieving,  murdering  creators  of  that  hopeless  little 
inferno  over  on  the  West  Side." 

Her  low,  tender  voice  lost  none  of  its  tenderness  in 
making  her  startling  accusation;  her  wistful,  pleading 
face  was  no  less  sweet  to  look  upon.  More  than  one 
self-controlled  director  sat  up  with  a  start.  It  was, 
at  least,  a  novelty  to  be  called  a  thieving  murderer 
by  such  a  gracious  little  lady. 

"Dear  brothers,"  continued  Ruth  warmly,  after  her 
words  had  sunk  home,  "I  do  not  come  here  to  be  vindic- 
tive, to  cause  one  hurt,  or  to  make  one  enemy.  We 
are  all  of  one  great  family,  all  sisters  and  brothers; 
I  love  you  all;  I  want  to  try  to  teach  you  to  love,  if 
you  can,  my  people;  and  if  you  cannot  love  them  learn 
to  be  fair  to  them.  I  do  not  say  what  I  say  idly.  I 


Joey  the  Dreamer  193 

have  thought  long  over  itl  I  have  searched  with  my 
own  hands,  seen  with  my  own  eyes,  and  weighed  it  all 
long  and  carefully  before  I  came  here  to  speak  to  you. 
And  I  repeat  it:  You  are  the  ones  who  are  responsible 
for  such  places  as  Clay  Court,  because  Clay  Court  is 
what  it  is  because  of  miserable  wages,  and  you  are  the 
men  who  pay  the  wages;  you  are  the  men  who  say  to 
Clay  Court:  'You  may  not  feed  your  children  enough 
to  make  them  grow  up  strong  men  and  women,  you 
may  not  have  fresh  air  enough  to  keep  your  infants 
alive.  You  may  have  only  enough  to  live  like  swine,' 
say  you,  'because  we,  your  masters,  desire  to  become 
very,  very  rich.' 

"That  is  what  you  say  to  Clay  Court  through  wages, 
my  brothers,  and  that  is  why  I  come  here  straight  from 
the  place,  with  the  sobs  of  weary  mothers,  and  the  wails 
of  hungry  babes  in  my  ears,  and  the  sight  of  ill  and  wasted 
boys  and  girls  before  my  eyes,  to  tell  you  about  it,  to 
drive  home  to  you  the  fact  that  such  places  exist,  and 
to  beg  of  you  in  the  name  of  God  and  all  goodness:  Do 
not  add  any  more  to  the  crimes  you  bear  by  making  this 
new  contemplated  wage-cut.  For  now  you  know,  and 
the  excuse  of  Cain  no  longer  will  suffice. 

"I  know  you  do  not  mean  to  be  cruel  to  my  people. 
You  haven't  meant  to  treat  them  unjustly.  You  merely 
have  been  careless  and  ignorant.  You  have  said:  'I 
can  do  this,  therefore,  I  will.  It  is  more  important 
that  I  grow  rich  than  that  a  thousand  people  are  paid 
living  wages.  Dividends  count  more  than  souls.  I 
and  my  kind  are  the  world;  the  rest  merely  are  the  mud 


194  Joey  the  Dreamer 

bricks  upon  which  the  world  stands.  Beside,  they're 
used  to  this  sort  of  thing,  and  their  misery  has  nothing 
to  do  with  me.' 

"And  saying  this  you  build,  in  your  ignorance,  a  mire 
from  which  arises  the  bill  which  you  pay  each  year 
for  your  police,  your  asylums,  your  hospitals,  your 
jails,  and  your  orphanages. 

"Their  misery  is  nothing  to  us,'  you  say,  and  you 
take,  because  you  can.  You  take  so  much,  brothers. 
You  take  so  much  that  there  is  not  enough  left  for  the 
others.  You  take  more  than  your  share,  more  than 
you  need,  more  than  you  have  any  good  of. 

"For  what  does  it  avail  you  after  all,  that  you  can  take 
so  much  to  have  and  hold  for  your  own?  What  does  it 
do  for  you?  Does  it  make  you  happy?  We  all  need  to 
work  and  do  something  and  struggle  because  we  feel 
that  the  end  of  it  all  will  be  happiness.  But  does  your 
striving  and  taking,  which  yields  you  such  an  enormous 
number  of  dollar  figures  and  power,  make  you  happy?" 

Her  eyes  moved  quietly  over  the  faces  before  her;  each 
one  she  subjected  to  searching  scrutiny.  And  each  man 
as  she  looked  at  him  knew  in  his  soul  that  she  had  read 
the  tale  of  strife,  turmoil,  worry,  trouble  that  rode  in 
his  heart  and  made  his  days  a  succession  of  distressed 
hours. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  are  not  happy.  You  are  rich, 
you  are  powerful,  you  have  the  sensation  of  being  mighty; 
but,  no,  you  are  not  happy.  That  is  the  wonderful 
thing  of  it  to  me,"  she  said  musingly,  "that  you  will 
struggle  to  take  so  much  and  to  make  so  much  misery 


Joey  the  Dreamer  195 

for  others,  when  it  really  does  nothing  to  create  happiness 
for  yourselves." 

("I  swear  the  girl's  actually  pitying  us!"  thought  Dicky 
Clews  as  he  met  her  eyes.) 

"  It  —  every  thousand  you  take  —  adds  only  to  your 
struggles,  an  additional  burden  to  carry  during  your 
brief  stay  on  mother  earth. 

"How  long,"  she  said  abruptly,  "do  you  expect  to  stay 
on  earth?  And  during  eternity,  whether  you  believe 
in  a  hereafter  or  not,  you  know  that  your  wealth  cannot 
go  with  you.  You  — "  she  singled  out  the  old  chairman  — 
"how  much  longer  do  you  think  you  will  pursue  your 
senseless  course  of  adding  to  your  already  superfluous 
riches?  Ten  years?  Then  what?  Death.  And  after 
death  what  will  you  leave  behind  you?  Money  enough 
to  keep  your  family  in  the  fore-front  of  the  rich?  Money 
enough  to  let  your  boy  go  through  life  without  one  mo- 
ment's need  to  be  useful?  To  let  him  grow  up  without  a 
thought  in  his  head  beyond  his  own  pleasure,  to  keep 
him  in  the  dark  concerning  the  realness  of  life,  as  much 
as  you  keep  your  factory  children  there  through  unfair 
conditions?  Or  to  let  your  daughter  grow  up  the  female 
counterpart  of  such  a  son?  Is  this  what  you  mean  to 
leave  behind;  is  this  all? 

"Dear  brother,  it  is  not  all.  Heed  now;  behind  you, 
you  will  leave  that  which  will  have  had  a  far  greater 
significance,  something  that  will  testify  more  loudly  to 
your  power.  You  will  leave  behind  you  the  stamp  of 
your  master  hand  in  the  form  of  scores,  hundreds,  aye, 
thousands  of  your  brothers,  sisters,  stunted,  mutilated, 


196  Joey  the  Dreamer 

crippled,  destroyed  body  and  soul  through  your  great 
system;  you  will  leave  your  mark  in  scores  of  consump- 
tives, made  in  your  workshops,  contributing  their  taint 
to  hundreds  of  offspring;  you  will  leave  your  mark  in  an 
army  of  men  and  women  grown  to  maturity,  living  and 
dying  in  ignorance  of  one  single  thing  that  makes  life 
good  and  beautiful  and  worth  while,  because  of  your 
system;  in  rickety,  anaemic  children  growing  up  and 
bearing  rickety,  anaemic  offspring  of  their  own;  in  dozens 
of  criminals,  and  scores  of  girls  forced  to  the  street ;  in  a 
creation  of  another  brick  in  the  miserable  structure  that 
is  called  a  slum,  another  addition  to  the  tribe  of 
miserables  who  in  the  end  may  reach  their  tainted 
hands  up,  and  up,  even  unto  your  class  and  tear  it 
down  to  its  own  miry  level. 

"This,  brother,  is  what  you  will  leave  behind  to  show 
that  you,  in  the  natural  order  of  things,  sojourned  on  this 
earth  for  your  natural  term  of  years,  blindly  took  for  your- 
self all  the  wealth  that  you  could  reach  and  passed  away 
into  eternity.  Beside  this,  your  money  and  fame  will 
be  as  a  tiny  cottage  beside  a  great  prison.  Long  after  that 
money  is  gone,  long  after  your  house  has  fallen,  the 
effects  of  these  things  will  be  on  the  world.  Idiots  will 
go  to  asylums,  paralytics  sit  helpless  in  the  chairs;  and 
the  malformed  of  soul  will  demand  the  treatment  society 
has  laid  out  for  them,  the  whole  vast  weeping  total  of 
human  misery  will  have  been  added  to  by  your  little 
contribution.  That  is  what  you  will  leave  behind  you, 
and  all  the  schools  and  hospitals  you  may  build  will  not 
atone  to  the  race  for  these  things.  Oh,  man,  made 


Joey  ike  Dreamer  197 

in  the    image  of    God,  how  long  will  it    be  before  you 
begin  to  see! 

"'How  can  you  accuse  us  of  these  things?'  you 
demand.  'How  do  we  do  them?' 

"How?  By  actions  like  this  wage-cut  that  is  being 
talked  of.  That  is  how  it  happens.  I  do  not  think  you 
mean  to  be  cruel.  No,  you  are  too  good  for  that. 

"You  do  good;  oh,  you  do  so  much  good!  You  build 
schools,  and  hospitals,  and  play-grounds,  and  for  every 
one  of  these  that  you  give,  a  song  of  praise  and  thanks 
goes  up  to  high  heaven.  You  are  good  men.  You  are 
not  bad.  But,  oh,  you  are  so  ignorant,  so  savagely 
cruel !  That  is  what  it  is,  the  cruelty  of  the  savage  — 
of  thoughtlessness  and  ignorance. 

"This  cut  in  wages  that  you  are  thinking  of  is  such 
cruelty.  It  is  savagery.  It  is  murder,  it  is  the  damnation 
of  souls  and  bodies.  My  people,  my  friends  over  there, 
your  brothers  and  sisters  in  humanity,  only  manage  to 
exist  on  what  they  earn  at  present  —  just  manage  to 
live.  Take  any  part  of  their  earnings  away  and  children 
will  die  of  hunger,  boys  will  turn  thieves,  and  girls  — 
your  daughters,  sisters  —  will  have  to  sell  themselves  in 
order  to  exist. 

"This  is  the  truth.  It  is  not  theorizing;  it  is  fact. 
A  girl  must  have  food,  clothes,  a  place  to  sleep.  She 
just  gets  this  now  on  the  wages  you  pay.  Cut  wages  in 
the  Factory,  and  her  body  must  pay  for  the  clothes  and 
the  place  to  lay  her  head.  Do  you  understand?  As 
sure  as  you  vote  this  wage-cut  you  doom  a  score  of 
helpless  girls  to  worse  than  damnation. 


198  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"You  have  done  these  things  often  in  the  past.  That 
was  because  you  did  not  know.  You  did  not  know  of 
those  helpless  women  and  children,  the  wan  widows,  and 
the  pleading,  sad-eyed  babes,  and  of  how  you  took  from 
them  all  that  makes  life  worth  living.  God  can  forgive 
you  for  the  past,  because  He  is  God.  But  neither  God 
nor  mancanforgive  you  in  the  future,now  that  you  know." 

She  seemed  to  break  a  little  and  waited  until  her  voice 
was  itself  again. 

"Dear  brothers,  our  family  —  your  family  and  mine  — 
the  family  of  humanity  —  has  a  claim  on  you.  I  press 
that  claim  now :  In  the  name  of  Christ,  in  the  name  of 
your  own  wives  and  daughters,  in  the  name  of  your  very 
civilization,  do  not  add  this  wage-cut  to  your  many 
thoughtless  crimes." 

She  ceased  to  speak.  She  looked  around  at  them. 
There  was  not  a  motion  in  the  group  before  her,  not  the 
roving  of  a  single  eye.  They  were  as  so  many  faces  of 
stone,  masks  behind  which  no  one  could  read  a  line. 

"I  thank  you,  brothers,"  said  Ruth. 

"That  is  all,  Miss  Arthur?"  said  the  courteous  chair- 
man kindly. 

"That  is  all.     You  have  been  very  kind." 

"A  pleasure."  The  chairman  smiled  and  bowed  as 
she  turned  to  go.  "We  have  all  been  much  interested,  I 
am  sure." 

He  bowed  her  out.     The  door  closed  softly  behind  her. 

"And  now,"  said  the  courteous  chairman,  stiffening 
his  lips,  "let's  get  down  to  business." 

And  now  the  world  knew. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FREDDY  and  Delia  were  not  at  all  overwhelmed 
by  the  impending  crisis.  This  is  a  peculiarity 
of  people  in  love.  Nations  may  fall  and  crum- 
ble back  into  the  dust  whence  they  sprang;  civilizations 
may  lose  themselves  off  the  face  of  the  earth;  but  even 
unto  the  end  the  young  folks  will  seek  out  secluded  spots 
and  make  eager  love  beside  the  ivy  on  the  crumbling 
walls.  So  has  it  been  from  the  beginning,  and  so  will  it 
always  be;  and  Clay  Court,  dear  reader,  in  this  regard 
differs  not  at  all  from  the  fortunate  part  of  the  world 
which  you  call  your  own.  In  fact,  if  the  truth  were 
carefully  sought  out,  it  is  probable  that  it  would  be  found 
that  successful  love  making  is  conducted  on  the  boulevard 
much  along  the  same  simple  lines  that  win  in  the  Tene- 
ment. For  we  are  men  and  women  first  of  all,  and  this  is 
a  thing  that  Circumstance  is  powerless  to  alter. 

While  the  Court  growled  and  cursed  on  this  pleasant 
Saturday  evening,  while  the  stores  and  markets  refused 
folks  credit  and  the  saloons  did  an  extra  business;  while 
Rinehart  screamed  in  the  Hall,  and  half  of  the  Tenement 
people  were  ready  to  follow  him  in  any  madness,  Freddy 
and  Delia,  arm  in  arm,  the  precious  violin  case  between 
them,  set  out  in  a  west-bound  avenue  car  for  their  great 
test  of  fate.  This  was  the  night,  we  remember,  when 

199 


200  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Freddy  was  to  have  his  chance,  his  real,  real  chance,  on 
the  programme  at  Electric  Park. 

Strange,  almost  incredible  to  relate,  they  made  that 
ride  in  utter  silence.  The  weight  of  the  evening's 
possibilities  rode  heavy  upon  them  both,  and  they  were 
too  honest  with  each  other  to  attempt  to  laugh  off  the 
seriousness  that  ruled  them.  But  Delia's  fingers  on  his 
arm  told  Freddy  what  it  meant  to  her,  and  he  thought  of 
the  Saturday  night  before,  and  he  felt  his  responsibility, 
and  the  boy  in  that  moment  gave  place  to  the  man. 

Binger,  meeting  them  at  the  light-sprayed  gate  of 
the  park,  slapped  Freddy  on  the  back  and  bade  him 
cheer  up. 

"You  don't  play  no  funeral  march,  you  know,"  he 
said.  "Ah,  deh  young  lady.  Pleased  to  haf  you  widt 
us  again.  I  hope  you  haf  not  forgoten  dat  Toussang's  is 
a  respectable  place." 

Delia  thought  he  shook  hands  with  just  a  little  too 
much  expression,  but  he  was  a  swell  gentleman  just  the 
same. 

"You  haf  come  oudt  to  see  Freddy  driumph,  eh?" 

"Sure.  She  came  with  me,"  said  Freddy,  leading  the 
way  toward  the  Casino,  the  long,  low,  walless  building 
where  Electric  Park  dispensed  free  music  and  dear  drinks. 

"You  are  deh  lucky  ladt.  Now,  iff  you  play  as  well  as 
you  select  your  company  —  ha,  ha,  ha!" 

He  was  in  great  fettle,  was  Binger.  He  had  been  drink- 
ing, not  much,  but  a  little,  and  he  kept  close  to  Delia  in 
a  way  that  made  her,  the  girl  who  was  at  home  in  any 
crowd,  no  matter  how  tight  the  press,  a  little  uncomfort- 


Joey  the  Dreamer  201 

able.  There  seemed  a  threat  in  his  leer,  a  promise  of 
future  unpleasantness  in  the  touch  of  his  elbow,  in  spite 
of  all  his  magnificence,  and  she  drew  closer  to  Freddy  as 
they  moved  along. 

Save  for  this  trifle,  Delia  was  in  her  element.  For  the 
night  and  the  place  and  crowd  were  made  for  Joy.  It 
is  at  night  and  in  such  spots  that  the  city  blooms,  and 
becomes  a  garden.  The  garden  is  all  artificial.  Its  flowers 
are  lights  and  laces;  its  odour  peanuts  and  patchouli. 
To  do  a  picture  of  it  use  lamp  black,  and  red  and  yellow. 
For  a  poem,  sing  of  a  laughing  girl  with  rouged  cheeks. 
It  is  the  city  triumphant.  Night  and  care,  darkness  and 
thought  are  routed.  The  little  human  sheep  —  children, 
unafraid  in  the  glare  and  contact  with  their  kind,  flock 
up  like  moths  to  a  street  lamp.  Their  feet  beat  together, 
a  quick-step;  their  voices  rattle  in  harmony,  a  symphony 
of  nocturnal  metropolitan  worship  of  the  jolly  god,  Who 
Cares?  We  are  free!  We  have  forgotten!  Strike  up 
the  music,  somebody,  and  let  us  all  dance ! 

Delia  didn't  say  this,  but  probably  she  would  if  the 
evening  had  been  one  of  less  importance.  She  was  barely 
touching  the  ground  as  she  walked.  Her  head  was  high 
up,  like  a  flower  riding  proudly  on  its  stalk;  and  her  eyes 
were  brighter,  the  little  red  mouth  redder  than  ever. 
She  was  intoxicated  again  by  the  flood  of  warm  life  around 
her,  and  Freddy,  looking  down  at  the  jaunty  little 
shoulders,  grew  warmer  around  the  heart  and  stiffer  about 
the  lips.  He  couldn't  lose  now,  with  such  a  prize  already 
won.  He  pinched  her  arm;  she  looked  up  quickly;  their 
eyes  met;  and  Delia  with  her  arm  pressed  his  hand  warmly 


202  Joey  the  Dreamer 

against  her  side.  She  understood.  And,  strangely 
enough,  there  were  warm  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  was 
glad  to  have  them  there.  So  it  was  natural  that  she 
should  say,  "Don't  get  fresh." 

She  hummed  a  tune,  one  of  the  tunes  whereby  Freddy 
would  rise  or  f  all  this  night,  and  then,  looking  around  at 
the  gaiety  about  her,  she  choked  with  the  fear  that  smote 
her  at  the  heart.  If  Freddy  won,  all  this  was  theirs, 
all  the  lights,  good  clothes,  freedom,  pleasure !  But  he 
might  not  win.  It  was  possible  that  he  would  not. 
Then  what?  Then  —  the  dead,  dark  round  of  life  in 
the  Factory  and  the  room  in  the  Tenement,  of  course. 
She  had  a  vision  of  the  Factory,  of  her  room,  there  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  brightness. 

"What's  the  matter,  kid?  Your  arm's  cold."  They 
were  in  the  Casino,  and  Freddy  was  staring  down  into 
her  face.  She  made  no  answer. 

"  I  got  to  leave  you  now.  They  spring  the  trap  on  me 
In  a  few  minutes,"  he  continued. 

"Oh,  Gawd!"  whispered  Delia. 

"Hah?" 

"Nothin'.  Go  on."  She  tried  to  laugh,  and  pushed 
him  away.  "Go  on;  get  it  over  with." 

He  saw  now  what  it  was,  and  smiled  upon  her  assur- 
ingly.  So  she  was  that  much  interested,  was  she?  He 
noted  that  the  jaunty  little  shoulders  quivered.  He 
grew  strong,  then,  did  Freddy.  Ah!  what  a  fine  thing  it 
is  for  a  young  man  to  discover  that  he  is  all  in  all  to  a 
young  woman! 

"Don't  worry,  yer  leddyship,"  he  whispered;   "I'm 


Joey  the  Dreamer  203 

there  with  the  goods  to-night.  I  can  feel  it  in  my 
hair." 

Then  he  was  gone,  and  she  was  alone  with  Binger, 
sitting  beside  him  at  a  secluded  table  and  staring  up  at  the 
stage  with  eyes  that  trembled  at  the  thought  of  Freddy's 
threatening  appearance.  He  was  an  Extra  and  was  to 
come  on  between  Number  3  and  Number  4.  Number  2 
now  gleamed  in  the  electric  lights  that  announced 
the  programme,  and  Delia  noting  it,  breathed  a  tiny 
sigh  of  relief  that  the  crucial  moment  was  one  number 
away,  at  least. 

"You  are  a  little  nervous,  my  dear?"  suggested  Binger, 
ogling  her  pleasantly. 

"Say  not,"  snapped  Delia.  The  tips  of  her  fingers 
were  through  her  cotton  gloves.  "Why  should  I  be?" 

Why,  indeed!  She  stood  on  the  brink  of  a  chasm. 
Freedom  of  the  sort  she  craved  lay  on  the  other  side. 
The  next  hour  would  prove  if  Freddy  could  offer  a  safe 
bridge  for  the  crossing.  She  prayed  to  her  own  peculiar 
gods  that  he  could.  Why  should  she  be  nervous,  indeed! 

That  was  just  what  Binger  said. 

"Dough  if  you  was  —  or  am  not  —  I  might  perhaps 
suggest  a  lidtle  trink?  A  small  bodtle  off  vine ?" 

"Nit,"  said  Delia,  shaking  her  head. 

"No.  Dere  iss  no  need.  You  are  a  swell  looker 
vidoudt  idt.  Ha,  ha!  My  dear,  how  do  you  like  our 
lidtle  park?" 

"Gee!  It's  swell,  after  the  old  Factory,"  said  Delia, 
honestly. 

"Good    Godt!     Iss    idt    possible?     You    work    in    a 


204  Joey  the  Dreamer 

fektory?  You  shouldt  nodt  do  dat.  No,  no,  my  girl, 
you  shouldt  nodt  work]at  all.  You  shouldt  haf  —  friends." 
Binger  beamed  and  nodded  significantly.  "You  shouldt 
have  friends."  He  leaned  nearer,  and  his  breath  reached 
her  cheek.  "Idt  iss  living  for  pretty  girls  who  have 
swell  friendts;  dat  is  living.  I  couldt  findt  swell  friendts 
for  you,  my  dear,  deh  swellest  in  diss  town.  And  den 
you  shouldt  live  as  you  shouldt." 

"Eyah,"  said  Delia  with  her  eyes  averted.  "Ought 
to  be  the  millionaire  kid,  too." 

"Millionaire?  Ha,  ha!"  Binger's  fat  throat  rippled. 
"Yes,  I  couldt  find  millionaire  friendts,  too.  Did  you 
effer  hear  of  Mr.  Clews?  A  millionaire."  Binger 
winked,  shaking  his  head.  "My  dear,  you  neffer  was 
meant  to  work." 

"Nobody  knows  that  any  better 'n  me,"  snapped  Delia. 

"No.     Andt  what  fektory  shouldt  it  be  you  work  in?" 

Delia  told  him.  Binger's  eyes  opened  wide  as  he  sat 
back  in  surprise. 

"So?  Dat  place?  Idt  iss  queer  business,  dat," 
said  he  thoughtfully. 

"What  is?"  asked  Delia. 

"Dott  you  shouldt  work  in  a  fektory,"  he  lied.  "Never 
the  less  —  you  must  not  do  idt  much  longer.  Tink  of 
dat  swell  liddle  face  of  yours  in  a  fektory!  Vot  a 
shame!  Ha  ha!" 

But  in  his  mind  he  was  revolving  the  question  of  how 
strange  it  was  that  it  should  be  Consolidated  Factory 
money  that  was  behind  the  very  park  in  which  they  now 
were  sitting. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  205 

Delia  didn't  know.  Probably  she  wouldn't  have 
cared.  Who  cares  what  tips  the  scales?  Not  folk  like 
our  Delia,  to  be  sure.  The  new  playwright,  gnawing  his 
fingers  behing  the  scenes,  while  the  audience  renders  the 
verdict  which  will  bring  to  him  affluence  or  failure  knows 
something  of  what  was  in  the  heart  of  Delia  during  those 
awful  minutes.  But  only  a  little.  For  her  fate  had 
been  written  that  fateful  Saturday  night  of  a  week 
before,  and  for  her  there  was  no  hope  but  that  Freddy 
would  win. 

"Oh,  gee!  Why  don't  they  hurry  it  up?"  Numbers 
2  and  3  were  taking  up  an  unconscionable  time.  "Do 
they  think  we  came  to  see  them?" 

And  she  laughed  in  Binger's  face  boldly;  and  her  bab- 
bling, unceasing,  hectic,  laughing,  deceived  him,  and  he 
fancied  that  she  was  smitten  with  J.  Q.  A.  Binger,  whereas 
she  was  only  talking  and  giggling  to  hide  her  quaking 
self.  And  then 

"Oh,  you  Freddy!"  "Ah!  There  he  is."  "There 
he  is.  Old  cock  Freddy!"  "Come  on,  you  Fritz!" 
The  gang  from  the  Factory  was  announcing  Freddy's 
arrival. 

He  was  standing  awkwardly  near  the  right  entrance 
of  the  stage,  grinning  mightily  on  one  side  of  his  face,  the 
other  grave  with  the  solemnity  of  the  artist  about  his 
work.  It  was  natural  to  him  that  he  should  be  merrier 
to  look  at  than  ever,  for  the  heart  within  him  was  beat- 
ing more  wildly.  The  glare  of  the  footlights  got  into 
his  eyes,  and  he  grinned  still  more,  and  that  rough- 
hearted  crew  in  the  front  seats  called  him  their  rough, 


206  Joey  the  Dreamer 

endearing  names  and  bade  him  "Go  to  it,  boyj^go  to  it, 
'cause  we're  here  to  see  you  through." 

Delia  sat  as  if  sitting  for  her  picture  and  drew  breath 
in  little  gasps,  and  Freddy  looked  over  at  her  and  began 
to  play. 

But  he  had  won  them  from  the  beginning  with  his 
wholesome  grin.  He  was  one  of  them,  no  matter  who 
or  what  they  were,  the  grin  had  put  them  all  on  an  equal 
footing,  and  they,  one  and  all,  were  praying  that  he 
might  make  good.  This  is  the  combination  that  makes 
for  good  work,  though  possibly  Freddy  might  have  gone 
far  with  even  a  hostile  audience.  For  Freddy  was  new, 
different.  He  had  known  that  he  "had  something."  So 
had  Binger.  The  crowd  rose  up  and  told  them  that  they 
both  were  quite  right. 

"Oh,  you  Freddy!  Come  back!  Come  back,  there. 
We'll  have  that  once  more  if  you  please." 

They  were  proud  of  him,  relieved,  happy  that  he  had 
made  good. 

"He'ss  a  cardt,"  chuckled  Binger.  "He'sS  a  cardt. 
He'll  draw.  Hah,  hah!" 

But  Delia  was  stunned.  She  had  expected  to  cry  out 
his  name  and  applauded  with  the  rest,  for  no  matter  what 
the  crowd's  verdict,  she  would  applaud;  but  now  that 
the  crisis  was  over,  and  all  that  she  had  prayed  for  had 
come  to  pass,  she  was  as  helpless  as  a  babe.  It  was  too 
much,  too  sudden.  She  saw  what  it  meant  to  her,  for 
the  woman  in  her  had  whispered  what  would  come  to  pass 
this  evening.  She  sat  dumb  and  motionless  while  the 
crowd  applauded,  while  Freddy  played  his  last  encore  and 


Joey  the  Dreamer  207 

bowed  his  grinning  way  out  of  sight:  and  while  the  next 
number  was  flashed  in  the  lights.  It  was  all  over;  he 
had  made  good;  they  were  free. 

Suddenly  she  came  to  life  and  started  up  as  if  to  run  to 
him  in  spite  of  the  chairs,  the  tables,  the  crowd,  everything. 
She  was  overwhelmed.  She  was  angry,  maddened.  It 
was  their  triumph;  his  and  hers.  The  crowd  —  what 
right  had  it  to  share  in  it?  She  was  jealous.  The  crowd 
was  taking  him  for  its  own.  And  he  was  hers,  only 
hers;  for  he  was  all  she  had.  She  rose,  gripped  the  table, 
swayed  forward  with  parted  lips  —  and  then  she  sat 
down  suddenly,  carefully  fussed  with  her  back  hair,  and 
even  while  so  engaged  said  carelessly  to  Binger: 

"Hot  stuff  to-night  —  with  the  gang  —  wasn't  he?" 

"A  cardt!"  gurgled  Binger  eying  the  typhoon  of 
drinks  ordered  after  the  applause.  "A  cardt." 

Was  it  true!  Could  it  be  true?  Or  was  it  only 
another  of  those  dreams  with  the  bitter  awakening? 
Had  this  thing  really  happened  for  them?  From  seven- 
fifty  to  twenty -five  a  week!  Only  Clay  Court  is  qualified 
to  appreciate  this  experience.  Yet  Delia  managed  to 
laugh  with  Binger  as  if  it  was  nothing  to  her. 

When  Freddy  came,  red,  sweating,  and  solemn,  to  sit 
beside  them  she  said:  "S'pose  you'll  get  the  swell  head 
and  buy  a  cane  now,  won't  you?" 

"No,"  said  Freddy.  "But  I'll  buy  you  some 
lemonade." 

"I  will  puy,"  said  Binger.  "But  —  lemonade? 
No!" 

"Lemonade,  yes!"   snapped  Delia.     "Nothing  but." 


208  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"So?"  Binger's  broad  mouth  grew  broader,  more 
pleasant.  He  was  considerable  of  an  epicure,  Binger. 
"Lemonade,  den.  Andt,  Mr.  Freddy;  you  may  consider 
yourself  engached.  Twenty-five  per,  begin  Vensdtday 
night;  andt  if  you  needt  something  in  adtvance  I  gif  idt 
to  you  now." 

Freddy's  heart  leaped  with  a  thump  that  Delia  heard; 
but  on  his  face  there  was  no  exultation,  no  surprise. 

"No,  thanks,"  he  said  carelessly.  "Don't  need  any 
now." 

And  Delia,  knowing  the  condition  of  his  finances, 
nearly  fell  off  her  chair  from  pride. 

"I  got  to  get  some  new  strings,"  continued  Freddy. 
"That's  all  my  extra  expenses.  Help  me  remember  it 
Tuesday,  will  you,  Dell?" 

"I  couldt  haf  the  leadter  order  them,"  suggested 
Binger  generously. 

"I'll  get  'em  myself,"  said  Freddy.  "I  want  to  pick 
'em  out." 

"You  are  a  goodt  picker,"  agreed  Binger,  and  again 
his  eyes  were  on  Delia. 

Far  back  in  the  Casino  had  sat  a  pale,  bored  little  man 
with  thick  strings  to  his  eye-glasses.  At  Freddy's  first 
bar  he  had  looked  up.  A  minute  later  he  was  almost 
interested.  Now  he  came  down  and  drew  Binger  to 
one  side. 

"Who  was  it?"  he  demanded.  "Tell  me  of  him  with 
the  red  hair.  Do  you  know  that  the  West  Side  has  got 
its  own  music  at  last?  No,  not  music,  either.  Slang. 
That's  it;  the  real  George  Ade  article.  The  red  head 


Joey  the  Dreamer  209 

plays  it.  Tell  me  who  he  is  so  I  can  immortalize  him  for 
half  a  column  Monday  morning." 

A  great,  glorious  night,  greater,  more  glorious  than 
they  had  dreamed  of!  The  first  moment  they  were 
alone,  Freddy,  pinching  Delia's  arm,  said,  "Well,  we  put 
it  over,  eh,  pal?" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

FREE! 
Outside  the  thousand-lighted  gate,  out  in  the 
street  where  the  gleam  and  roar  of  the  park  were 
behind  them,  Delia  and  Freddy  clasped  hands  and 
looked  at  each  other  with  daring  eyes.  The  test  was 
over.  They  had  won.  It  was  intoxicating,  almost 
sickening.  It  was  something  like  the  sensation  of  the 
starved  man  who  suddenly  finds  his  belly  full  of  food. 
They  were  free.  They  dared  to  live  now.  They  dared! 
And  so  they  went  steadily  down  the  dark  street,  their 
hands  interlinked  so  the  palms  pressed  close  together, 
seeking  only  to  quit  the  crowds  that  they  might  be  alone. 

The  glamour  and  pull  of  the  park  had  lost  its  hold  even 
on  Delia.  Something  greater,  stronger,  more  wonderful 
had  taken  its  place.  The  park,  the  lights,  the  giggling 
crowds  had  drawn  her  because  they  promised  happy 
forgetfulness  for  an  hour,  two  hours.  But  this  was 
something  else  —  something  better  than  forgetfulness: 
and  by  the  magic  that  flew  through  her  and  encircled 
her  as  they  walked  on,  it  seemed  to  Delia  that  this  new 
something  gave  promise  of  happiness  eternal.  At  all 
events,  one  moment  of  Freddy  then  was  worth  an  hour  of 
the  park.  So  they  went  on. 

The  street  led  on  to  the  boulevard.     The  boulevard 

210 


Joey  the  Dreamer  211 

led  to  the  park.  They  followed  a  path  to  a  seat  by  the 
lagoon,  and  the  moon  looked  at  them  from  the  water  and 
from  the  sky.  They  sat  holding  hands  like  a  couple  of 
children;  and  Nature  promptly  proceeded  to  weave 
its  spell. 

"We'll  have  a  house  of  our  own,"  blurted  Freddy  at 
last.  "Yes,  b'jees,  we  will.  We'll  save  our  money  and 
buy  it  on  easy  payments.  We'll  buy  a  lot  out  here 
somewhere,  first,  that's  what  we'll  do.  Then  we'll  have 
it  built  just  the  way  we  want  it." 

"Cottage?"  said  Delia,  to  show  that  she  had  followed 
the  awesome  leap  of  Freddy's  mind. 

"Sure.  Mustn't  have  it  too  big."  Freddy  was  your 
true  dreamer  who  realizes  the  complete  picture  at  one 
jump.  "Nice,  low  cottage.  Back  from  the  street. 
Grass  in  front;  coloured  glass  in  the  front  door;  lace 
curtains  in  the  front  windows.  A  yard,  sure,  just  like 
these  places  around  here." 

"How  many  rooms?" 

"Five,  six,  mebbe." 

"Gee!  What'll  we  do  with  six  all?  Six  rooms; 
you'n  me " 

She  stopped.  Freddy  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  and 
he  stopped  likewise.  Then  they  looked  at  each  other 
slowly,  slyly  at  first,  each  seeking  to  read  the  other's 
face  without  detection,  then  more  boldly  until  in  the  end 
they  were  facing  each  other,  their  eyes  eager  to  tell  all 
the  mysteries,  the  new-found  tenderness  and  wonder 
that  the  suddenly  coming  thought  had  conjured  up. 
And  only  their  eyes  could  tell;  for  the  feeling  was  too 


Joey  the  Dreamer 

vague,  too  fine,  too  thrilling,  too  strange  to  find  utterance 
at  their  inexperienced  lips. 

The  clasp  of  their  hands  grew  firmer,  more  trustful. 
Slowly,  unconsciously  they  drew  closer  together,  as  if 
the  mutual  touch  of  the  bodies  was  necessary  for  their 
swelling  hearts.  A  blush  mounted  faintly  to  Delia's 
cheek.  Gradually  her  eyes  lowered,  and  with  them  low- 
ered her  head,  until,  as  naturally  as  the  twining  of  the 
vine  to  the  oak,  it  found  a  resting  place  upon  Freddy's 
breast.  The  wise  old  moon,  if  it  noticed,  must  have 
smiled  with  proper  tenderness.  Delia  snuggled  her 
nose  more  closely  against  the  vest  upon  which  she 
rested.  She  felt  the  pump  of  the  honest  heart  beneath 
it,  and  she  pressed  closer  to  it,  hungry  to  show  the  last 
degree  of  her  new-found  dependence. 

"Gee!"  she  whispered.     "Who'd  'a'  'thunk  it?     Eh?" 

And  the  wise  old  moon,  having  heard  a  new  expression 
of  an  eternally  old  feeling,  must  have  smiled  again. 

"Sure,"   said   Freddy,   clearing   his   throat.     "We  — 
we'll  need  six  rooms  all  right." 

"Shut  up,"  whispered  Delia.  "You  make  me  blush 
like  a  child." 

"We'll  give  'em  an  education.  Yes,  b'jees,"  —  Freddy's 
mind  ran  bitterly  back  to  his  own  starved  childhood  - 
"our  kids  are  going  to  school,  and  have  a  chance  to 
play!" 

"Shut  up!"  repeated  Delia,  raising  her  head  and 
looking  up  at  the  sky.  "Gee!  What  a  bee-yootiful 
pipe-dream." 

"Nix.    Nix  on    that.     No  dream  here.     It's  a  sure 


Joey  the  Dreamer  213 

thing  for  us.  Didn't  you  hear  what  I  was  going  to 
catch?" 

"But  it's  too  good  to  be  true,  Freddy." 

"Wait,  watch,  and  listen,"  retorted  Freddy.  "We 
hain't  had  many  good  things  in  our  life;  that's  why  it 
seems  like  it  can't  be  true.  But  it  is  —  it's  going  to  be. 
I  know  it.  I  knew  it  all  the  time.  Why,  when  I  was  a 
sawed-off  little  kid  washing  bottles  in  a  shoe  polish 
fact'ry  in  the  basement  and  sleeping  under  the  sink,  I 
knew  something  was  going  to  happen  some  day  that'd 
gimme'  a  chance  for  something  like  this.  I  knew  it. 
An'  that  was  before  I  knew  I  could  fiddle.  I  been  waitin' 
for  it  a  million  years.  It  don't  faze  me,  honest.  Don't 
worry,  Delia;  it's  only  a  case  o'  waitin'  now  till  the 
dream  comes  true." 

"Gee,  if  it  only  would!" 

"Why,  it  will,  honey." 

"I  never  knew  of  it  happ'ning.  Never  knew  anybody 
ever  had  such  luck." 

"What's  that  gotto  do  with  us?" 

"  I  never  figured  myself  such  a  winner  —  never  counted 
on  anything  big  —  like  this."  Passionately  she  flung 
herself  upon  him.  "Oh,  you,  Freddy,  boy,"  she  cried. 
"  You  make  me  feel  so  good  that  I'm  afraid  —  afraid, 
that's  what's  the  matter  with  me.  I  never  expected 
nothing  like  this.  I  never  hoped  for  it,  'cause  I  knew 
it  wouldn't  do  no  good.  And " 

"We  hadn't  met  then,  Dell!" 

"No.  No,  that's  so."  Delia  was  silent,  and  Freddy 
looked  at  the  hand  he  was  holding.  It  was  a  small  hand, 


214  Joey  the  Dreamer 

the  hand  of  a  woman  —  child,  but  the  tips  of  the  fingers 
were  worn  to  callouses  and  discoloured  beneath  the  skin. 

"Oh,  Freddy."  The  girl  beamed  with  a  sudden 
idea  as  she  followed  his  glance.  "  I'll  get  that  off  now  — 
I'll  have  a  chance  to  get  my  fingers  clean." 

"You  know  it." 

"Haven't  had  'em  clean  since  —  since "  Her  voice 

dropped  and  stopped  as  memory  ran  back  over  the  long 
barren  years  of  what  should  have  been  her  childhood. 

"When  did  yuh  start  tuh  work,  Delia?" 

"Twelve." 

"Twelve!" 

"Uh,  huh!  In  the  Fact'ry.  An'  I  never  had  'em 
clean,  real  clean  since." 

"But  now  yuh  will.  An'  yuh  won't  never  get  'em 
glued  up  again,  ayether,  yer  leddyship." 

"No?"  Again  she  threw  herself  upon  him  with  the 
passionate  bodily  appeal  for  protection.  "Oh,  is  it 
true,  Freddy?  Am  —  am  I  —  free?" 

"You  are,  yer  leddyship,'  'said  Freddy,  "you  sure  are." 

She  was  crying  frankly,  now,  half -laughter,  half-tears, 
clinging  to  the  lean,  strong  shoulders  above  her  as  if  the 
world  and  all  depended  upon  them. 

"Why  —  why  weep,  yer  leddyship?" 

"Feeling  good,  that's  all,"  said  Delia,  shaking  her 
head.  "Can't  I  cry  if  I  wanto  laugh?" 

"You  sure  can,"  said  Freddy,  "you  sure  can.  I  know 
how  you  feel.  You  hain't  had  such  an  awful  scream  of  it, 
either,  have  you,  hon'?" 

Her  mouth   pouted   like  a  child   as   she  ruminated 


Joey  the  Dreamer  215 

perhaps,  on  what  might  have  been.  Her  fingers  played 
tenderly  with  a  coat  button. 

"Nope,"  she  said  with  a  quaver  in  the  voice,  shaking 
her  head  thoughtfully.  "Nope." 

"I'll  make  it  up  for  you,  kid,"  he  whispered;  and  she 
whispered  back  brokenly,  "I  know  you  will,  Fred; 
I  know  you  will.  You  got  to.  Because  —  'cause 
you've  done  so  much  for  me,  Freddy,  so  much  —  you'll 
never  know." 

"Who?    Me?     I " 

"Done  it  all,  Freddy,  boy;  you've  saved  me.  Gee!" 
She  sat  up  smiling  through  her  tears  with  the  look  of  a 
child.  "Gee!  Just  think  of  what's  before  us  —  all 
because  we  just  happened  to  get  to  know  each  other. 
Ain't  it  wonderful?  Why,  say,  I  feel's  if  I  hadn't  been 
living  before.  Just  as  if  I've  only  been  sleeping  along 
waitin'  for  this  to  come  and  wake  me  up.  Gee,  it's  a 
good  world — "she  snuggled  close  to  him  again  — 
"when  you've  got  a  Freddy  for  your  own." 

But  a  moment  later  she  seemed  to  shudder,  and  he 
whispered,  "Now,  what  is  it,  hon'?" 

Her  little  face  was  white  and  cold  as  it  turned  up  to 
him.  Into  her  eyes  flew  the  old,  old  fear  that  life  had 
driven  into  her  from  the  days  of  her  infancy.  There  is 
the  Death  of  Hope  in  this  Fear.  Its  name  is  Poverty. 

"Ah!"  whispered  Delia  chokingly.  "You  gotto, 
you  gotto  make  good,  Freddy.  If  you  don't  —  I'm 
gone  —  I'm  gone;  that's  all." 

He  drew  her  closer  to  him.  He  lifted  her  to  his  lap. 
He  understood.  His  thin  arms  drew  her  hungrily  toward 


216  Joey  the  Dreamer 

his  body;  and  he  felt  the  little  breasts  crush  themselves 
against  his  ribs.  She  was  panting  in  a  mingling  of 
passion  and  fear. 

"Be  good  to  me,"  she  pleaded  with  her  lips  on  his 
coat.  "You  see  what  you've  done  now." 

"Sure,"  he  whispered.     "It's  all  right." 

They  were  very  serious.  Life  suddenly  had  become 
a  wonderful  unsuspected  dream.  Hitherto  they  had  lived 
with  the  thoughtlessness  of  two  lively  young  animals. 
Habit  and  instinct  sufficed  for  the  direction  of  their 
existence.  To-day  was  yesterday  in  repetition,  to- 
morrow would  be  another  to-day.  Nature  had  not 
laid  on  them  her  claim  of  the  sexes.  Life  had  not  begun 
to  be  significant.  Suddenly  all  this  was  changed.  Their 
time  had  come.  That  remorseless  spinner,  Nature, 
finding  them  ripe  for  her  purpose  had  proceeded  to  weave 
with  them,  working  them  into  one  more  infinitesimal 
mesh  in  the  great  net  of  lif  e  of  which  we  are  all  a  part.  So 
does  Nature  weave  always.  Her  indifference  to  the 
individual  is  more  than  sublime.  Her  work  is  the  apothe- 
osis of  concentration.  For  Nature  has  only  one  care, 
one  idea  with  which  she  concerns  herself  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  else  —  to  see  that  the  net  is  supplied  with  meshes 
and  that  the  weaving  goes  ever  on. 

In  this  moment  these  two  ordinary  young  people  of 
the  tenement  saw  the  heights.  For  the  time  they  might 
have  been  primitive  beings  in  an  unsullied  garden  of 
Eden.  The  young  eternal  impulses  were  their  masters. 
The  brick  and  mortar  shells  that  housed  them  were  gone 
from  the  earth.  The  earth  was  bare,  made  anew.  The 


Joey  the  Dreamer  217 

trite  bonds  of  circumstances  were  broken.  They  were 
free.  They  were  awakened,  man  and  woman  in  love  in 
a  primitive  world  of  misty  blackness,  softened  and 
mellowed  by  dim,  far-away  lights. 

"Remember,"  whispered  Freddy,  "those  dark  brown 
days  are  over.  We  begin  to  live  now." 

Then  the  crunch  of  an  officer's  heel  on  the  gravel 
brought  them  back  to  earth. 

Slowly  they  quitted  their  trysting  place,  careless  of  the 
place  or  hour,  forgetful  of  all  but  the  joy  within  them. 
The  streets  had  grown  comfortably  empty.  Here  a 
group  of  young  men  gathered  raggedly  at  a  corner;  there 
a  middle-aged  reveller  staggered  home  sedately  —  using 
the  whole  sidewalk  in  his  devious  progress.  Other  pairs 
like  themselves  strolled  slowly  along,  the  man's  arm  boldly 
clasping  his  companion's  waist  —  even  the  pause  for  an 
occasional  embrace  was  not  lacking.  Still  other  pairs 
stood  in  the  darkened  hallways,  their  low-toned  murmur- 
ing conversation  ceasing  as  footsteps  approached  their 
trysting  place  and  promptly  resuming  when  the  pedes- 
trian had  passed  by.  All  undisturbed,  Freddy  and 
Delia  went,  left  quite  alone  as  was  their  wish,  and  they  had 
but  little  to  say.  They  had  spoken  back  there  in  the 
park,  and  had  said  it  all.  They  were  not  possessed  of 
many  words.  Now  it  was  only  left  to  dream  happily 
over  and  over  again  the  tale  that  had  been  told,  to  ponder 
upon  the  eternal  mystery  in  which  they  had  become 
enveloped.  And  could  a  careful  observer  have  beheld 
them  as  they  passed  under  the  corner  lights  he  would 
have  marvelled  that  such  faces  belonged  in  Clay  Court. 


218  Joey  the  Dreamer 

They  turned  into  the  Court.  Suddenly  they  sprang 
apart.  Half  a  dozen  men,  their  heads  close  together,  were 
listening  to  a  speaker.  He  was  Rinehart,  and  he  was 
promising  them  "War,  by !  War!" 

Then  Delia  grew  cold  and  shuddered,  as  one  who  is 
waked  from  a  pleasant  dream. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Freddy 

"Nothing;  nothing  'tall,"  gulped  Delia.  But  to 
herself  she  repeated:  "It's  too  good  —  it's  too  good 
to  come  true." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

DINNY  NOONAN  didn't  polish  his  lamp  post  that 
next  Sunday  morning.  Neither  did  she  of  the 
wonderful  tresses  stand  in  the  windows  of  No.  39 
and  luxuriate  in  her  shiny,  black  hair.  Dinny's  post  of 
duty  was  surrounded  by  a  group  of  sullen,  undershirted 
men  long  before  the  leisurely  Dinny  had  rubbed  the  sleep 
from  his  bleary  eyes  and  wandered  forth  to  seek  his  morn- 
ing drink;  and  the  girl  with  the  hair  leaned  on  her  sharp 
elbows  and  looked  sullenly  out  of  the  window,  entirely 
indifferent  to  the  glory  that  tumbled  in  tangles  down  her 
back.  What  was  the  use  of  combing  even  the  finest 
hair  in  the  world  when  men  stood  in  the  street  below 
and  neglected  breakfast?  What  is  the  use  of  breakfast 
when  the  end  of  the  world  may  come  to-morrow?  Who 
cares  for  the  future  when  the  future  my  be  nil? 

"If  we  only  knew,  one  way  or  the  other,"  muttered 
the  undershirts. 

But  no  one  knew.  They  had  gathered  around  the 
Sunday  papers  when  they  came  up  the  Avenue,  and  they 
had  been  bitterly  disappointed.  Even  the  least  careful 
of  those  careless  journals  refused  to  do  more  than  ven- 
ture a  guess  at  what  had  taken  place  at  the  Directors' 
meeting  the  afternoon  before.  The  undershirts  kicked 
the  papers  into  the  street  and  shoved  their  hands  in 

219 


220  Joey  the  Dreamer 

their  pockets;  and  the  Court  quickly  proceeded  to  take 
upon  itself  an  atmosphere  of  painful  suspense,  suspense 
liberally  mingled  with  hate. 

It  was  the  Sabbath  again,  but  Sabbath  in  name  only. 
There  was  none  of  the  wonderful  quiet  that  ushered  in 
other  weeks,  none  of  the  luxurious  loafing.  A  strange, 
nervous  activity  which  manifested  itself  in  aimless 
cursing,  curt  answers,  and  a  desire  to  quarrel,  ruled  from 
the  beginning.  Sunday  was  only  a  space  that  had  to  be 
endured,  that  was  the  trouble.  It  had  revealed  nothing; 
it  would  reveal  nothing.  It  was  a  space  of  blank  hours. 
Until  sometime  Monday,  or  until  the  Company  pleased, 
Clay  Court  must  wait  in  angry  suspense  to  find  out  what 
the  fates  would  do  to  it;  and  the  manner  in  which  it  waited 
was  not  nice  to  behold. 

The  Tenement,  and  the  whole  Court  itself,  of  course, 
was  hotter,  stinkier,  more  hopeless  than  ever.  The  heat 
rose  from  the  rotten  cedar  paving  blocks  in  heavy,  odour- 
laden  waves.  The  Tenement  seemed  to  gurgle  with  its 
heated,  bubbling  life.  Out  of  doors,  in-doors,  every- 
where, the  flies  buzzed  in  inconceivable  numbers,  their 
maddening  drone  adding  insolent  torture  to  the  slow 
hours.  And  all  these  material  manifestations  of  barren- 
ness had  their  counterpart  in  the  hollow  actions  of  the 
human  beings  whom  they  helped  to  drive  to  desperation. 

"Paw,"  bawled  some  children,  "ain't  we  going  to  the 
picnic  to-day?" 

"Naw." 

"Aw!  Why  ain't  we  going  to  the  picnic,  to-day, 
paw?" 


Joey  the  Dreamer  221 

"Shut  up!  I'll  bust  you  in  the  ear  if  you  bother  me  any 
more." 

Said  a  wife  to  her  ordinarily  useful  husband,  "You 
going  to  fix  that  table  leg  to-day  like  you  promised?" 

"Be  still,  woman,"  was  the  answer,  "  'tis  no  time  for 
wasting  time  like  that." 

A  gentleman  who  came  to  visit  a  friend  in  the  Tenement 
said,  "What?  I  didn't  know  there  was  any  one  dead 
here?"  A  moment  later,  after  studying  his  friend's 
face,  he  whispered,  "Say,  Bill,  who  you  going  to  kill?" 

Truly,  a  rare  Sunday.  The  bells  from  up  Avenue  sent 
down  their  sweet-tongued  message;  but  the  atmosphere 
of  Clay  Court  caught  it  and  turned  it  into  a  meaningless 
clamour  of  brass. 

One  scene,  one  only,  there  was  out  of  doors  that  stands 
forth  in  memory  as  not  hard  to  look  at.  A  child  —  a 
three-year-old  —  sat  with  his  back  against  a  garbage 
box  and  played  with  a  pup.  It  was  a  sorry  looking  pup, 
half -starved,  dirty,  sore-eared  —  almost  as  sorry  looking 
as  the  child.  They  were  twins,  they  were  supremely 
happy.  The  child  talked  and  the  pup  barked.  Then 
they  both  laughed,  laughed  with  eyes  and  mouths,  and 
ears  and  toes,  as  only  pups  and  babes  can  laugh.  The 
pup  dove  in  sideways,  snatching  playfully  at  the  child's 
dress,  received  the  feeble  clout  on  the  ear  that  it  ex- 
pected, leaped  joyfully  back,  fell  over  itself,  and  stood 
off  at  a  distance,  head  to  one  side,  alertly  watching  the 
next  move  of  its  little  playfellow. 

"Hee-yah!"  commanded  the  child,  and  the  pup  sidled 
up  and  licked  his  face. 


Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Ain't  he  sweet?"  The  child  honoured  me  by  asking 
when  he  saw  that  I  watched  with  as  much  apprecia- 
tion as  a  dull  adult  might  show.  "Ain't  he  sweet!" 

The  pup  turned  around  and  barked  at  me;  the  child 
jerked  him  by  the  tail.  Then  a  swaggering,  clamouring 
crew  swept  past  on  its  way  to  the  Hall,  and  I  was  forced 
to  move  on. 

The  child  and  the  pup  in  the  lee  of  the  garbage  box, 
their  bright  eyes  and  their  care-free  laughs,  stand  out  in 
the  memory.  They  prove  one  thing:  there  are  flowers 
even  in  such  barren  spots  as  Clay  Court  on  this  Sunday. 

Up  in  the  Hall,  Rinehart  laboured  away  like  the  natural 
storm  centre  of  all  the  restlessness  around  him.  His  tight 
little  mouth  was  distorted  by  a  smile  of  unmistakable 
self-satisfaction,  the  smile  of  a  man  who  has  prepared 
and  concealed  a  Surprise.  The  smile  puzzled  most  of  his 
followers.  A  few  understood.  Among  these  was  our 
bland  and  amiable  friend,  Mr.  Bruggers. 

Asked  Mr.  Perkins  of  Mr.  Bruggers  during  the  heat  of 
the  afternoon  meeting:  "Did  you  ever  read  American 
history?" 

"Not  to  remember  it,  Mr.  Perkins,  not  to  remember 
it." 

"Then  you  don't  know  why  this  is  different  from  the 
Boston  Tea  Party." 

And  yet  this  was  the  Sunday,  black  as  it  was,  that  the 
Day  dawned  for  Little  Joey. 

It  was  very  quiet  up  in  the  room  where  he  lay.  It  was 
very  comfortable  in  the  wonderful,  clean  bed.  And 


Joey  the  Dreamer  223 

for  the  first  time  since  his  removal  there  Joey's  faculties 
were  entirely  clear,  and  he  appreciated  the  marvellous 
qualities  of  his  surroundings. 

Joey  lay  flat  on  his  back,  as  still  as  a  watching  mouse, 
his  quick,  bright  eyes  receiving  vivid  impressions  of 
everything  about  him.  There  was  method  in  his  scru- 
tiny. He  knew  that  soon  he  would  have  to  leave  all  this 
wonderful  cleanliness,  and  he  wanted  to  have  it  to 
remember  when  he  was  down  there  in  the  dark  closet  of 
the  third  floor  rear. 

"When  do  I  go  back?"  he  asked  suddenly  of  me,  seeing 
that  I  was  sitting  near  him. 

"Back  where,  Joey?" 

"Back  to  work  —  and  downstairs." 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  Joey,  I  don't  think  you're 
going  back  at  all." 

"Hah?" 

"Joey,"  I  continued,  "how  would  you  like  to  go  to 
work  for  me  when  you  get  on  your  feet?" 

Joey  feebly  wrinkled  his  little  forehead  and  stared  up 
in  bitter  disappointment. 

"You  got  a  factory?" 

He  had  looked  for  better  things  in  any  one  who  was 
Miss  Ruth's  friend. 

"Sure  thing." 

"Aw!    Bet  Miss  Ruth  don't  know  it." 

"Oh,   yes,   she  does." 

Joey  shook  his  head.  "  No,  no;  she  wouldn't  stand  for  it." 

I  took  a  good  hold  of  myself  and  began  seriously: 

"Well,  you  see  this  is  a  different  kind  of  factory  from 


224  Joey  the  Dreamer 

any  you  ever  heard  of,  Joey.  It's  what  you  might  call  a 
health  factory.  It  makes  little  boys,  and  everybody  else 
who  ,  works  in  it  big  and  strong,  and  the  longer  you 
work  the  better " 

"Aw!"  sneered  Joey.     "You  can't  con  me." 

"Con   you?" 

"The  longer  you  work  —  free  overtime,  eh?" 

It  was  a  little  time  before  I  fully  understood,  and  a 
little  longer  before  I  could  trust  myself  to  go  on. 

"Give  me  a  chance  to  explain,  Joey,"  I  pleaded. 
"Let  me  tell  you  about  my  factory.  It's  one  of  the  fun- 
niest factories  you  ever  hear  of.  Never  heard  of  a  health 
factory  before,  did  you?  Of  course  not.  That's  what 
my  factory  is.  It's  all  out  of  doors.  Ever  hear  of  a 
factory  all  out  of  doors,  Joey?  No?  Well,  that's  one 
of  the  reasons  why  this  is  a  health  factory.  All  out  of 
doors,  so  you  get  fresh  air  and  sun  all  the  time,  and  that 
helps  to  make  you  big  and  strong." 

"Whata  you  make  there?" 

"Make?    Oh!  —  hay,  for  one  thing." 

"Hay?" 

"Yes." 

"What  for?" 

"To  feed  horses  and  cows  with." 

"Make  them,  too?" 

More  silence.  Joey  wondered  why  I  had  to  turn  my 
face  away  once  in  awhile. 

"No-o,  we  don't  make  horses  and  cows  exactly,  but 
we  help  'em  grow.  We  make  corn,  and  potatoes,  and 
apples,  and  berries " 


Joey  the  Dreamer  225 

"Aw,  I  know!"  cried  Joey.  "A  farm  —  like  they  have 
in  the  rube  plays  down  at  the  Bi-jo." 

"Right  you  are.  Want  to  come  out  and  work  for  me, 
when  you're  stronger?" 

"What  doing?" 

"Well  —  catching  grasshoppers.  How  would  you  like 
to  do  that,  Joey?" 

"Donno.     Hard?" 

"No.  You  see  I'm  pretty  particular  about  the  way  I 
have  the  grasshoppers  caught  on  my  farm.  I  want  you 
to  do  it  like  this :  You  go  out  and  sit  in  the  grass  —  in 
the  shade  some  place.  If  you're  sleepy  you  roll  over  and 
take  a  snooze.  If  you're  hungry  you  shout  for  something 
to  eat.  If  you're  thirsty  you  do  just  the  same.  If  you 
want  to  move  you  move,  and  if  you  want  to  stay  you  stay. 
And  if  any  big,  sassy  grasshopper  comes  up  and  tries  to 
run  over  you,  you  call  for  somebody  to  come  up  and  put 
a  rope  around  his  neck  and  lead  him  away  to  the  stable. 
Then  you " 

"Oh,"  said  Joey.  "Kidding  me,  eh?"  I  had  to  retire 
to  save  my  face. 

It  took  Ruth  to  make  it  clear  to  him  and  to  make  him 
believe  it.  He  was  not  going  back  to  the  factory,  nor 
to  the  closet  on  the  third  floor  rear  and  the  life  that  had 
choked  him.  He  was  going  away. 

"The  old  lady?"  interrupted  Joey.  "She  won't 
stand  for  it." 

It  would  be  very  pretty  to  say  here  that  Joey  balked 
because  of  an  overwhelming  love  for  his  mother.  But 
it  would  be  very  silly,  too,  because  it  would  be  so  patently 


226  Joey  the  Dreamer 

untrue.  Joey  naturally  was  a  much-loving  child, 
but  love  for  a  drunken  mother  does  not  thrive  at  all  in 
a  dark  third  floor  closet,  nor  for  that  matter  any  place 
in  the  Tenement.  Love  does  not  thrive  there  at  all;  that 
is  the  curse. 

The  "old  lady,"  it  was  explained,  had  been  — had  been 
won  over  to  the  new  programme.  First,  as  soon  as  he 
could  be  moved,  he  was  going  out  to  the  farm. 

"They  got  a  Supe  to  watch  you  out  there?" 

It  was  explained  that  it  wouldn't  make  any  difference 
if  they  had.  .  .  .  Then  he  was  to  stay  there  until  he 
was  strong,  big  and  strong,  and,  after  that,  go  to  school. 

It  took  a  long  time  to  convince  Joey  that  such  things 
could  happen.  He  was  a  harsh  and  shrewd  little  skeptic. 
He  asked  if  the  farm  wasn't  a  new  name  for  Pontiac. 
The  reform  school  he  could  understand;  he  had  seen  plenty 
of  kids  taken  away  to  go  there. 

It  must  be  written  that  he  wasn't  greatly  elated  even 
after  Ruth  had  driven  the  truth  home.  Already  the 
hopelessness  of  the  poor  had  fastened  itself  upon  Joey, 
the  hopelessness  which  says:  nothing  good  can  come  to 
us.  But  this  he  did  say  after  he  had  lain  awhile  and 
thought  over  the  possibilities  that  had  been  opened  up 
to  him: 

"Say!    How's  Old  Mag?" 

Mag  was  getting  better,  she  said,  and  it  is  certain  that 
she  was  much  more  cheerful.  She,  too,  was  to  be  taken 
care  of,  though  with  her  it  would  be  more  difficult  to 
break  the  news.  She  was  so  certain  that  she  was  down 
for  only  a  few  days  that  even  Ruth  dreaded  and  delayed 


Joey  the  Dreamer  227 

the  moment  when  Mag  must  be  informed  that  a  sanitarium 
was  her  destination. 

Mag  was  even  planning  her  first  day's  work. 

"It  won't  be  much  longer  that  I'll  be  laying  here  flat 
on  my  back,  a  nuisance  to  everybody  and  no  good  to 
myself.  I  know  lots  of  shops  where  they'll  be  putting 
on  power  operators  this  time  of  the  year.  It  won't  take 
long  to  land  once  I'm  on  my  feet." 

And  Joey,  having  been  assured  about  Mag,  rolled  over 
on  his  side  and  went  to  sleep,  feeling  that  a  door  had  been 
opened  to  reveal  something  to  him,  he  knew  not  what. 

Black  night  fell  upon  the  streets  like  a  twofold  curse. 
As  ever  the  heat  seemed  to  rise  with  the  darkness.  Brick, 
iron,  stone,  and  wood  were  hot  to  the  touch,  and  sleep 
was  all  but  out  of  the  question.  Up  on  the  roofs  once 
more  the  weary  programme  of  tossing  women  andmoaning 
children.  Down  in  the  saloons  the  ghastly  effort  at 
forgetfulness.  Fightingwas  common;  and  once  a  woman's 
voice  rang  out  terribly  in  a  lull:  "My  Gawd!  He's 
sticking  him!  Get  the  knife  —  get  the  knife,  quick!" 

"Oh,  Freddy,  Freddy!"  whispered  Delia  as  they  sat 
together  and  listened  to  the  turmoil.  Just  that  and 
nothing  more.  And  Freddy  understood;  for  he,  too, 
yearned  for  the  nearby  day  when  the  curse  of  it  all  could 
be  shaken  off.  Poor  Freddy! 

A  slight  breeze  came  up  and  blew  tantalizingly  over 
the  scene,  as  hot  as  the  breath  of  a  flesh-eating  monster. 
Nature  herself  seemed  to  be  taking  a  hand  in  the  crisis, 


228  Joey  the  Dreamer 

testing  man's  endurance  to  the  limits  of  sanity  with  the 
cruelties  of  her  uncooled  night.  A  cold  rain  might  have 
prevented  what  happened  two  days  later,  as  at  Waterloo 
a  lack  of  it  might  have  saved  Napoleon.  But,  as  at 
Waterloo,  it  was  not  to  be. 

Gray,  gaunt  morning  reared  its  head  in  the  east.  Oh, 
the  tale  that  is  writ  in  the  desolateness  of  poor  city  streets 
at  dawn !  Then  the  virgin  day  mocks  the  efforts  of  man 
with  the  deadliness  of  the  scene  it  reveals.  The  soul  of 
the  city  is  gone.  Only  the  flesh,  scantily  covering  the 
bones,  remains.  Life  is  hidden.  The  city  is  dead, 
dead  and  laid  out  for  all  prowling  eyes  to  see.  It 
is  not  made  for  such  exhibition;  and  it  makes  a 
horrifying  corpse. 

And  Clay  Court,  weary  from  lack  of  sleep,  and  stupid 
from  heat,  rose  up  and  greeted  the  day  and  prepared  to 
find  what  the  next  twelve  hours  held  for  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

FREDDY  long  had  nourished  a  secret  ambition. 
It  was  to  tell  the  Superintendent  exactly  what 
he  was. 

Monday  morning  was  the  preferable  time,  some  dark- 
blue  Monday  morning  when  the  Superintendent  was  at  his 
ugly  worst.  It  was  on  Monday  that  the  Superintendent 
gloated  most  gleefully  in  his  sense  of  dominion  over 
those  unfortunate  enough  to  be  in  his  charge.  At  eight- 
thirty  he  received  from  the  hands  of  the  time-keeper  the 
time  report  and,  casting  his  glassy  eye  over  the  long  tale 
of  names,  saw  who  was  on  time,  who  late,  and  who  not 
present  at  all.  In  this  moment  he  resumed  the  wand  of 
authority  which  had  slipped  from  his  hands  with  the 
closing  of  the  Factory  doors  Saturday  night.  Six  days 
of  the  week  he  was  a  Superintendent;  on  the  seventh  he 
became  a  mere  "family  man."  The  stitching  room 
thought  it  was  Sunday  liquor  that  caused  him  to 
curse  the  room  on  a  Monday  morning.  It  was  not:  it 
was  Wife. 

"Brr-oop !"  said  the  Superintendent,  his  eyes  following 
down  the  list  of  names  handed  to  him  by  the  shrinking 
time-keeper.  "Hoomph!"  And  this  particular  Mon- 
day morning  happened  to  follow  a  Sabbath  upon  which 
the  wifely  temper  had  been  harsh,  indeed 

229 


230  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Yessir,"  whined  the  time-keeper.  "It  is  fierce  the 
way  they  don't  get  down  Monday  morning." 

"Brr-ow-wow!" 

"A  shame!"  The  time-keeper  interpreted  his  master's 
growls  with  satisfactory  accuracy.  "Wonder  is  you  get 
the  work  out  with  such  a  gang  of  useless  hounds  to  work 
with.  Aren't  many  could  do  it,  sir." 

"Hu-nah!" 

"Fired  they  ought  to  be  in  a  bunch;  yessir." 

"Huh!" 

This  last  expressive  monosyllable  brought  the  time- 
keeper up  with  a  jerk.  It  was  the  Superintendent's 
way  of  saying  that  he  had  had  enough  sympathetic 
sycophancy  for  the  time  being,  the  day's  work  had 
begun. 

"These  two,"  the  Superintendent's  fingers  pointed  out 
two  names.  "Ever  lay  off  before?" 

The  time-keeper  craned  his  neck  over  the  other's 
shoulder. 

"These  two,"  repeated  the  Superintendent,  pointing 
out  the  names  of  Delia  and  Freddy.  "Have  they  ever 
laid  off  before  on  a  Monday  morning?" 

"I  think  they  have;  yessir,"  replied  the  time-keeper 
promptly.  He  didn't  think  anything  of  the  sort,  but 
he  knew  that  this  morning  his  superior  craved  blood, 
and  being  small  and  weak  of  soul  he  perjured  himself 
accordingly. 

"Think?    Don't  you  know?" 

"Yessir.  They  have  laid  off  before.  They're 
regular " 


Joey  the  Dreamer  231 

"Send  'em  to  me  if  they  show  up  at  noon.  I'll  put  an 
end  to  these  Monday  morning  hang-overs.  I'll  —  "  He 
proceeded  to  vent  his  spleen  in  thundering  abuse,  and  he 
still  was  telling  what  he  would  do  to  this  unlucky  pair, 
when  Freddy  calmly  sauntered  into  his  presence. 

The  Superintendent  started  and  gasped.  Sauntering 
in  his  presence  was  a  thing  undreamed  of.  People 
hurried,  scurried,  ran,  jumped,  stumbled,  trembled  before 
him.  They  never  sauntered.  As  well  look  for  a  convict 
waltzing  before  the  bear-eyed  warden  as  an  employe 
sauntering  before  the  Superintendent.  And  yet  here 
Freddy  was  sauntering,  and  to  render  his  conduct  per- 
fectly diabolical,  "Hey!"  he  called.  "I  want  to  speak 
to  you." 

"Wha-what?"  The  Superintendent  leaned  against 
a  table  to  support  himself.  "You  —  you  talking  to 
me?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  Skroobonio;  yes,  indeed,"  replied  Freddy 
pleasantly.  "Pause  and  give  ear  to  me.  For  I  have 
something  to  s'y  to  you." 

"Huh?" 

"Something  to  s'y  to  you."  Freddy  beamed  and 
nodded  at  the  dumfounded  official  in  a  manner  most 
pleasantly  patronizing.  The  Superintendent's  discom- 
fiture was  like  honey  in  the  young  man's  mouth.  "Don't 
be  rushed,  please,  'cause  if  you  do  you'll  cook  yourself 
with  me,  and  I'll  get  peevish.  As  I  was  s'ymg,  I  have 
something  to  s'y  to  you,  and  there's  quite  a  lot  of  it, 
and  I'm  going  to  take  my  time." 

"  What     the  —  "    began    the    Superintendent,    but 


232  Joey  the  Dreamer 

beyond  this  primitive  explosion  words  failed  him  utterly. 
The  impossible  had  happened  —  an  employe  stood  at 
ease  before  his  frowns !  The  tyrant  blustered,  exploded 
feebly,  and  sat  down.  And  then  Freddy  opened  his 
soul  and  began. 

"You  see  it's  this  way,"  he  said  blithely.  "You've  had 
a  lot  to  say  to  me;  now  I'm  returning  past  favours,  and 
no  questions  asked.  Did  you  ever  think  when  you  were 
shooting  it  into  me  that  there  might  come  a  day,  some 
sweet  morning  'bout  like  this  when  that  game  might  work 
with  the  reverse  English,  with  me  as  the  shooter  and 
you  as  the  shootee?  Answer:  'No,  I  never  did?'  Why 
didn't  you?  Answer:  'Why  should  I?  I'm  the  boss.' 
Yes,  my  dearly  beloved  Skroobonio,  you  are.  But  didn't 
you  ever  stop  to  think  that  the  people  you  boss  are 
people  just  like  yourself,  and  you  happen  to  be  running 
'em  just  because  they're  working  in  this  stitching-room 
in  this  factory?  'No,  no,'  said  he  with  a  frown,  'I  never 
did.'  Then,  my  dear,  old,  sour-faced  Skroobonio,  let  this 
be  a  lesson  to  you.  For  here's  one  chee-ild  who's  quit 
being  one  of  your  slaves  and  has  come  down  to-day  just 
for  the  sake  of  telling  you  what  a  dirty,  white-livered, 
kid-bullying,  girl-scaring  —  you  are." 

"Hold  on!  "  The  Superintendent  had  moved.  "Don't 
tear  your  shirt,  old  cacky,  with  those  quick  moves, 
'cause  if  you  do  I'll  have  to  drive  you  one  between  the 
eyes.  That's  right,  sit  down  and  listen,  Skroobonio; 
you'll  never  get  such  a  chance  to  hear  what  a  rat  you 
are  as  long  as  you  live. 

"  Why,  say,  Skroobonio,  you've  been  so  mean  to  the 


Joey  the  Dreamer  233 

poor  folks  that  had  to  work  under  you,  that  when  you  die 
and  go  to  hell  the  devil'll  say,  'Who's  this?'  and  when  you 
tell  him,  he'll  ask  what  you  done  on  earth,  and  when  you 
tell  him  that  he'll  say,  'Phew!  Get  to  hell  out  of  here. 
You  must  think  we  can  stand  for  everything,'  and  slam  the 
bars  in  your  face.  Why,  honest,  Skroobonio,  if  you  could 
see  how  you  look  to  decent  people,  you'd  say,  'Is  that  me?' 
and  pick  out  a  nice  hole  in  the  lake  and  go  out  past  the 
crib  and  do  the  German. 

"Yessir,  you're  too  mean  for  hell.  There's  only  one 
place  for  you.  You've  got  it.  They  had  to  have  a  rat 
in  pants  to  make  this  room  pay,  so  they  got  you." 
Freddy  stopped  and  looked  his  victim  over  with  terrible 
eyes.  "  You  —  I  don't  wish  you  any  hard  luck,  but 
I  do  hope  you  get  caught  by  the  heels  in  the  shafting  and 
wind  around  a  pulley  an  inch  at  a  time.  That's  all. 
You  might  think  of  the  kids  you've  abused  while  you  was 
winding  around." 

"Get  out!"  shrieked  the  Superintendent,  gaining 
control  of  his  tongue  after  a  struggle.  "Get  out,  or  I'll 
have  you  thrown  out." 

"All  right,  Skroobonio,  I'm  going.  But  next  time  you 
fire  a  kid  for  being  so  weak  he  can't  hustle,  remember  how 
I  quit,  and  —  aw,  you  pup,  you  ain't  worth  troubling 
about." 

After  which  abrupt  ending  to  a  somewhat  unchristian 
but  decidedly  natural  discourse,  Freddy  turned  on  his 
heels,  snapped  his  fingers  at  the  dusty  factory  room  from 
which  he  was  escaping,  and  went  out  for  good,  slamming 
the  door  behind  him. 


234  Joey  the  Dreamer 

As  he  passed  out  had  he  troubled  to  look  he  might 
have  seen  a  man  tacking  a  notice  above  the  time-keeper's 
window.  It  was  the  announcement  of  the  long-expected 
cut  in  wages,  but  Freddy  didn't  stop  to  see. 

At  the  corner  Delia  was  waiting. 

"Well?" 

"Well?" 

"You   didn't   scrap." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"'Cause  your  knuckles  ain't  cracked.  "ia 

"No,"  laughed  Freddy.  "No,  we  didn't  scrap,  yer 
leddyship.  I  just  told  him  he  was  a  bad  boy,  and 

"Bad  boy!    I'll  bet  you  did!" 

"And  a  few  other  things,  I  was  going  to  say.  And 
now"  —  he  took  her  by  the  arm  and  turned  her  about, 
so  she  faced  the  Factory  —  "take  a  good  look  at  it  and 
kiss  it  good-bye  forever." 

"Good-bye!"  laughed  Delia,  gaily  throwing  a  kiss  at 
the  ugly  gray  building.  "I  hope  you  choke." 

Then  arm  in  arm  they  wandered  eastward  in  the  face 
of  the  sun,  their  eyes  blinking,  their  feet  stumbling, 
clumsy  in  the  unwonted  light  of  day  and  the  sense  of 
freedom.  The  world  was  a  new-made  place  to  them. 
It  had  been  dark,  old,  tiresome.  Now  it  was  filled  with 
the  light  of  hope,  the  light  which  the  gods  placed  before 
the  eyes  of  man  when  they  bade  him  endure  his  lot  in 
patience.  Life  was  a  thing  worth  while,  and  they  were 
very  happy. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  asked  Delia. 

"I  don't  care."    Their  plans  were  indefinite.     Who 


Joey  the  Dreamer  235 

needs  to  plan  when  he  is  happy?  It  was  first  come,  first 
taken.  A  big,  green-painted  car  rolled  up  to  the  corner 
and  stopped. 

"The  long  green,"  said  Freddy. 

"All  aboard."  They  hopped  to  the  platform,  Delia 
flushed  and  giggling. 

"Where  does  it  go?"  she  asked. 

"To  the  end  of  the  line,"  said  Freddy. 

"Where's    that?" 

"I  dunno.     I  s'y,  conny,  how  far  do  you  go?" 

"Tuh  th'  cimitary,"  replied  the  conductor  in  sepulchral 
tones. 

They  leaped  off  as  precipitately  as  they  had  come  on. 
"  'Cimitary!'  "  repeated  Freddy.  "We  were  going  the 
wrong  way.  Come  on!  Here's  one  coming  on  the 
other  side." 

Hurriedly  they  crossed  the  street  and  entered  an 
east-bound  car. 

"How  far  do  you  go?"  asked  Freddy. 

"Art  Institute,"  replied  the  conductor. 

"What's  that?"  said  Delia. 

"A  place,"  said  the  conductor,  "where  they  keeps 
paintings,  and  drawings,  and  statues  —  Adam  and  Eve 
in  the  Garden  of  Eden  —  no  clothes.  Heh,  heh,  heh! 
It's  a  great  place,  they  tell  me.  I  was  never  there. 
Some  day  — some  day  when  I'm  off  and  my  wife's  away  — 
I'm  going.  Heh,  heh,  heh!  By  golly!  It  must  be  a 
great  place.  All  kinds  of  statues,  they  tell  me  —  and 
no  clothes.  More  pictures  of  that  kind  than  a  fancy 
saloon.  Wonder  they  ain't  pinched,  by  golly,  'tis." 


236  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"It's  what  they  call  Art,"  said  Freddy.  "That  goes 
where  the  rough-neck  thing  gets  pinched." 

"Anyhow,  it's  no  place  for  us."  Delia  tossed  her  head 
emphatically.  "None  of  this  sporting  life  for  us  now. 
Get  off." 

They  were  in  the  street  again,  laughing  at  the  novelty 
of  their  adventures. 

"Where  now?"  asked  Delia. 

"Little  care  I,"  said  Freddy.  "Suppose  we  flop  a  coin 
to  see  'f  we're  going  or  coming." 

"Let's  — oh,    sa-ay!" 

Before  them  a  dark-skinned  Sicilian  was  spraying  the 
bright-hued  stock  of  his  little  flower  stand.  Delia  grew 
serious. 

"Say,  Freddy,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  reproached 
them  both  as  one,  "d'you  know  we're  awful  selfish?" 

"We  are?" 

"Sure  we  are.     Here's  us  sporting  round,  and  over 
home  there's  Joey  and  Mag  flat  on  their  backs,  and  — 
and  I  bet  a  dollar  they'd  just  be  tickled  to  death  if  they 
had  a  carnation  or  two  to  look  at." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  admitted  Freddy. 

"Neither  did  I,"  said  Delia,  "till  I  saw  these  flowers. 
But  'tain't  right  of  us,  hugging  all  this  joy  business  of 
ours.  Let's  split  it  up  with  them.  Eh?" 

"As  how?" 

Delia  stepped  up  to  the  flower  stand. 

"How  much  a  dozen?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the 
bright  carnations. 

"Oh!"  said  Freddy.    "Now  I  get  you."    He  paid 


Joey  the  Dreamer  237 

for  her  selections,  eying  her  the  while  with  a  new  tender- 
ness, even  a  new  pride. 

"You're  a  peach,"  he  said  softly.  "Still  I  always 
knew  this  was  the  right  you" 

"Whatever  that  means,"  said  Delia. 

"You  look  more  natural  carrying  flowers  to  sick  kids 
than  eating  lobsters  at  night." 

"Natural!"  sniffed  Delia.     "Oh,  I  dunno." 

They  got  on  a  car  and  went  back  to  hot,  stinky  Clay 
Court.  Delia  held  the  tissue  paper  covered  blooms  with 
both  hands,  to  guard  them  from  injury.  She  was  very 
pretty.  Freddy,  looking  on,  occasionally  interrupted 
his  look  of  admiration  to  shake  his  head  and  treat  one  side 
of  his  face  —  the  side  away  from  Delia,  to  a  quizzical 
grin.  "And  she  loves  the  gay  life!"  he  sneered  inwardly. 
"Nit.  Not  so  it  hurts  her,  anyhow." 

They  went  down  Clay  Court  arm  in  arm,  and  the 
Court  looked  out  of  its  windows  and  saw  how  it  was  with 
them. 

"Bless  'em,  the' darlin's,"  muttered  a  sweaty  woman. 

'Twas  so  I  was  once;  me  an'  me  Dinny.  The  saints 
bliss  'em,  say  I,  though  Dinny's  now  getting  piped 
down't  the  cahrner  s'loon." 

"Calves!"   sneered  Rinehart,   superiorly.     "Calves!" 

But  Old  Mag  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow  and 
smiled  when  they  entered  her  room. 

"Laid  off?"  she  questioned,  surprised  at  their  un- 
wonted week-day  appearance. 

"No,  not  laid  off,  Mag,"  said  Delia.  "We  quit; 
honest,  we  did.  Here,"  she  continued  hurriedly,  blushing 


238  Joey  the  Dreamer 

under  Mag's  questioning  scrutiny,  "here's  a  few  pinkies, 
for  you.  Like  'em?" 

But  Old  Mag  was  more  interested  in  the  pretty  con- 
fusion in  Delia's  blue  eyes  than  in  the  pink  flowers. 

"What  did  you  quit  for?"  she  asked. 

"D'you  like  carnations?"  persisted  Delia. 

"You  can't  fool  me,  child,"  cried  Mag,  lifting  her 
head  to  look  from  one  to  the  other.  "You  two's 
engaged.  I  bet  you  laid  off  to  get  married!  Well, 
now,  what  do  you  think  about  that?  You  two  get- 
ting married!" 

"We  didn't  say  we  was,"  said  Delia. 

"You  dear  kid!"  said  Mag.  "Come  here."  Two 
white,  wasted  hands  reached  up  and  held  the  young 
flushed  face  between  them.  She  was  drinking  at  the 
fount  of  another's  happiness,  was  Mag,  and  that  patient, 
unselfish  heart  grew  warm  with  the  reflected  joy.  There 
was  a  mist  in  her  eyes;  and,  perhaps,  after  all,  there  was 
a  little  speck  of  wistfulness  in  her  expression  as  she  beheld 
the  complete  bliss  which  never  had  been,  never  could  be 
hers.  For  no  lover's  arms  had  ever  touched  Old  Mag,  no 
lover's  kisses  ever  had  lingered  upon  her  lips.  Perhaps 
she  had  dreamed  of  such  things.  Perhaps  even  the  power 
to  dream  had  been  starved  in  her.  But  at  all  events 
she  was  now  alight  with  true  womanly  satisfaction  at  this 
spectacle  of  a  pleasing  match. 

"You'll  be  happy,  kid,"  she  whispered  as  Delia  bent 
down  and  kissed  her.  "He  won't  never  turn  drunkard 
on  you  and  make  you  go  working  again.  He'll  be  good 
to  you." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  239 

"He'll  have  to!"  laughed  Delia.  Then  she  told  the 
secret  of  Freddy's  great  good  fortune. 

"Well,  ain't  that  grand!"  beamed  Mag.  "Why, 
you'll  be  real  swell.  You'll  be  forgetting  you  ever 
knew  us." 

"Eyah.  Like  ducks  forgetting  how  to  swim.  Don't 
you  ever  think  it." 

"We  want  you  to  get  on  your  pins  and  be  in  at  the 
wedding,"  said  Freddy. 

"I'll  be  there,"  said  Mag.  "I'm  feeling  stronger 
every  day." 

"You're  looking  better,  too,"  lied  Freddy,  honestly. 
"Ain't  she,  Dell?" 

"Of  course.  And  here,  Mag,  take  these  flowers  now, 
'cause  I'm  getting  tired  holding  them  out  to  you.  Go 
on,  now,"  she  warned  as  Mag  drew  back,  "they're  for 
you.  We  got  'em  for  you.  Ain't  they  pretty?" 

"You  didn't?"  said  Mag,  still  not  taking  the  flowers. 

"We   did." 

"For  me?"  There  was  something  in  the  thin  voice 
that  made  even  Delia  choke. 

"Sure,  for  you." 

"But  — why, " 

"Aw,  don't  be  asking  questions,"  interrupted  Delia 
vigorously.  "Here,  take  'em." 

She  hurriedly  thrust  part  of  the  bouquet  into  Mag's 
hand,  hurriedly  placed  the  rest  in  a  glass  on  the  table, 
and,  still  hurrying,  swung  back  to  the  bed  and  kissed  the 
white,  tight  forehead  with  a  smack  that  rang  through 
the  room. 


240  ]  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Don't  you  go  trying  any  thanking  game  on  me,"  she 
laughed  huskily,  taking  Freddy  by  the  arm  and  dragging 
him  toward  the  door.  "S'long,  Mag;  remember  we  want 
to  see  you  up  soon." 

Mag  lay  and  watched  them  silently  as  they  went  out. 
The  flowers  were  in  her  hands  and  her  hands  were  folded 
upon  her  breast.  She  was  smiling. 

"Gee!"  said  Delia  out  in  the  hall.  "I  like  to  have 
trun  a  fit." 

Whereat  Freddy  kissed  her. 

They  found  little  Joey  propped  up  in  bed  with  a 
picture  book  on  his  lap  and  alone  for  the  time  being . 
Here  was  where  Freddy  shone. 

"What're  you  doing  here  loafing  in  bed  when  you 
ought  to  be  up  chasing  around,"  he  roared  in  heavy 
tones.  "Trying  to  four-flush  about  being  sick?  Come 
out  of  it,  kiddo;  you  don't  look  any  sicker'n  a 
three-horse  truck.  Why,  you  look  ready  to  scrap 
anybody  within  ten  pounds  of  your  weight  on  the 
street  —  On  the  square,  Joey,"  he  ended  in  another 
tone,  "you're  looking  all  to  the  good.  Feeling  all 
right,  ain't  you?" 

"Sure,"  piped  Joey.  "Wasn't  much  sick,  anyhow. 
What  you  doing  off  to-day?  Did  they  strike?" 

"Not  a  little  bit,  Joey.  They  didn't;  we  did,  Delia 
and  me.  Took  a  day  off  to  come  around  and  bother 
people.  Let  him  sniff  the  posies,  Delia!  We  picked 
'em  off  the  trolley  posts  coming  up.  Whoa!  Don't  eat 
'em;  they're  only  made  to  smell." 

"You  shut  up,  Freddy,"  said  Delia  directly.     "You 


Joey  the  Dreamer  241 

gas  away  too  much  for  well  folks  to  stand.  Joey,  you'll 
be  up  in  a  couple  days  now,  won't  you?" 

"Sure,"  said  Joey.  "Then  I'm  going  to  work  for  Mr. 
Lord,  out  in  the  country." 

"Swell!"  cried  Delia.  "I  knew  he'd  be  framing 
something  up  for  you.  You'll  get  as  big  and  strong  as 
a  house." 

They  petted  him  and  joked  with  him,  and  when  they 
left,  Joey  said,  "I'll  be  out  of  bed  Wednesday.  The 
doctor  says  so."  His  face  lighted  up  at  his  thoughts 
of  the  future.  "There  won't  be  any  Supe,"  he  said 
finally,  and  Delia  and  Freddy  understood. 

They  came  out  of  the  Tenement.  They  turned  toward 
the  Avenue,  and  ran  straight  into  a  crowd  of  men  from 
the  Factory.  It  was  not  yet  twelve  o'clock. 

"What's  the  reason?"  asked  Freddy.  "Did  you 
strike?" 

"Sure,  we  struck,"  replied  a  young  man.  "What'd 
you  expect  us  to  do;  thank  'em  for  cutting  us  down?" 

"Hey,  son,"  boomed  a  never-to-be-mistaken  voice; 
"you're  out,  too,  aren't  you?" 

"Out  for  good,  Mr.  Perkins,"  said  Freddy.  "I  quit 
last  Saturday.  Through  with  it  all.  It  don't  bother 
me.  I  ain't  mixed  up." 

Perkins  nodded,  grinned,  and  spat  into  the  street. 

So  it  had  come. 

Clay  Court  took  the  blow  silently.  Things  were  past 
the  talking  stage.  There  was  much  drinking;  and  Mr. 
Mehaffey  and  Mr.  Sodders,  reading  the  signs,  got  out 
their  wooden  shutters  for  their  precious  windows.  For 


242  Joey  the  Dreamer 

the  notice  of  the  wage-cut  had  been  followed  by  more 
sinister  news.  The  Factory  was  going  to  operate  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  and  its  freight  was  to  be  hauled 
as  usual  along  the  regular  routes  to  the  various  depots. 
And  the  most  important  of  these  routes  took  the  wagons 
down  the  Avenue  past  Clay  Court. 

I  sought  out  Dicky  Clews  at  the  club  that  night. 

"Dicky,  did  you  personally  vote  in  favour  of  the 
wage-cut?" 

"Had  to,  absolutely  had  to,  old  chap.  Yes,"  said 
Dicky. 

"Then,  Dicky,  at  that  moment  your  little  soul  was 
indicted  for  murder." 

"By  whom,  please?"  said  Dicky. 

"God." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Tuesday,    August  —  th,    —  19 

NOW  that  the  time  has  come  to  set  down  in  mate- 
rial black  and  white  the  history  of  that  day  the 
pen  hesitates  and  halts.     But  for  the  clippings 
before  me  I  would  not  dare  to  write  this  chapter,  for,  look- 
ing back,  it  all  seems  incredible,  even  impossible,  as 
impossible  as  a  bad  dream.     Memory  conjures  up  the 
pictures;  the  critical  mood  rejects  them  as  chimeras. 

But  here  are  the  clippings.  They  litter  the  desk. 
They  come  from  all  corners  of  the  land.  There  are 
scores  of  them.  They  are  the  newspaper  stories  of  what 
happened  in  Clay  Court  on  this  hot  Tuesday  morning  in 
August.  And  the  newspapers,  who  can  go  beyond! 

Yes,  here  is  the  whole,  stirring  history  as  the  reporters 
told  it.  There  is  the  story  of  Little  Joey.  One  special 
writer  made  a  suit  of  clothes  out  of  Joey.  There  is  the 
story  of  Freddy,  of  Perkins;  and  the  history  of  the 
incidents  in  which  they  were  involved. 

It  is  all  there,  in  the  screaming  heads  and  the  cold, 
indisputable  type.  There  are  pages  of  photographs, 
sketches,  and  diagrams.  It  was  no  dream.  It  was  all 
real;  and  to  those  who.  saw  it  the  day  will  linger  in  the 
mind  as  long  as  memory  itself  remains. 

£43 


244  Joey  the  Dreamer 

The  morning  opened  fresh  and  clean.  Nobody  went 
to  work;  but  the  girl  in  39  leaned  on  her  elbows  in  the 
window  and  forgot  to  comb  her  hair.  There  was  no 
morning  clatter.  So  complete  was  the  paralysis  that 
Peace  seemed  to  have  taken  up  her  abode  in  Clay  Court. 
Children  went  out  and  called  to  one  another  in  the  street. 
It  was  like  the  morning  of  a  Fourth  of  July,  calm  but 
pregnant  with  tumultuous  possibilities. 

Clay  Court  ate  careless  breakfasts  and  strolled  out 
and  began  to  drink  indifferently.  The  men  felt  strange  — 
"lost"  they  called  it  —  because  of  the  unwonted  holiday, 
and  bad  liquor  was  called  upon  to  bring  them  back  to  a 
properly  self-satisfied  condition.  The  saloon-keepers  put 
on  extra  help,  and  the  grocers  marvelled  that  business 
should  be  so  bad.  In  ugly  crises  people  think  of  drink 
before  food. 

"Gee!     Why  can't  we  go  for  a  picnic!"   laughed  a  girl. 

"Stay  right  here,  sis,"  said  a  man.  "You'll  see  a 
picnic  that's  worth  the  money." 

The  men  who  heard  it  grinned  so  their  teeth  showed, 
and  nodded  grimly,  though  the  lips  of  some  were  blue 
from  funk.  The  rest  asked  only:  Show  us  somebody 
to  hit.  The  blood  lust  of  the  wronged  was  theirs,  the 
primitive  desire  to  hurt,  to  smash  the  hard-knuckled 
fist  against  a  face,  to  grasp  a  throat  and  squeeze  till  the 
tongue  came  out.  The  passion  that  drove  the  cave  man 
who  slew  a  neighbour  for  robbing  his  cave,  was  driving 
them;  and  most  of  them  thought  no  further  than  the 
savage  gratification  that  would  come  from  the  chance  to 
do  the  hated  ones  harm.  Some  of  the  older  men  shook 


Joey  the  Dreamer  245 

their  heads;  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  young  ones 
chortled  because  the  strike  would  give  a  chance  to  fight. 

"Gimme  a  hit  at  the  can,"  called  a  youth  to  a  damsel 
who  hurried  from  Sodders's^side  door  with  a  can  neatly 
revealed  under  her  apron. 

"Kill  a  policeman  first  and  I  will,"  was  the  girl's 
retort.  News  had  come  that  the  police  were  guarding 
the  Factory. 

"Why  don't  we  go  down  there?"  queried  a  boy. 

"Shut  up,  you  scut,"  came  the  answer.  "The  teams 
are  coming  up  this  way." 

By  nine  Clay  Court  had  shaken  off  the  lethargy  of  a 
sultry  morning  and  was  warming  up  to  the  work  it  had 
in  hand.  As  enthusiasm  grew,  so  grew  the  noise.  There 
was  more  laughter  than  any  other  exclamations,  but  the 
laughter  was  not  nice  to  hear. 

Soon  men  began  to  gather  in  the  Hall.  At  nine-thirty 
came  the  inevitable  meeting  to  consider  the  exciting 
question.  "When  the  Wagons  Pass  Here  What  Shall 
We  Do  to  Them." 

The  Little  Surprise  Party  was  in  full  swing.  The  Hall 
was  crowded.  Its  air,  naturally  fertile  with  odours,  was 
swelled  to  bursting  with  the  mingled  lees  of  last  night's 
beer,  tobacco,  and  whiskey,  and  still,  considering  the 
odour,  a  surprising  few  were  seriously  under  the  influence 
of  liquor.  But  they  were  drunk,  every  mother's  son  of 
them,  drunk  to  the  final  degree  of  desperation  on  stronger 
waters  than  he  found  in  the  whiskey  bottle;  and  their 
eyes,  alight  with  the  fires  of  revenge  about  to  be  sated, 
glowed  livid  threats  to  any  or  all  who  might  oppose  or 


246  Joey  the  Dreamer 

differ  with  their  purpose.  They  talked  in  curses,  and 
jostled  one  another  indiscriminately  in  their  gestures. 
The  eternal  savage  was  in  the  ascendant.  Woe  to  any 
one  or  anything  that  offered  itself  as  possible  prey! 

Such  was  the  Hall  when  Ruth  came  in  and  quietly 
pushed  her  way  to  the  front  and  mounted  the  platform. 
I  had  tried  in  vain  to  dissuade  her.  Her  faith  in  her 
friends  was  boundless.  I  followed  and  mingled  with 
these  friends. 

She  was  alone  on  the  platform.  Rinehart  was  not  in 
the  Hall.  He  had  disappeared  mysteriously  early  in  the 
morning  along  with  Mr.  Bruggers,  and  had  not  been 
seen  since.  No  one  seemed  to  know  where  he  had  gone. 

During  the  morning  at  various  times  speakers  had 
mounted  the  platform  and  retired;  but  by  now  the  meet- 
ing had  resolved  itself  into  a  tangle  on  the  floor  in  which 
a  dozen  voices  spoke  unanimously  in  favour  of  violence. 
The  language  was  the  language  of  hate;  the  uneasy, 
shifty  movements  of  the  crowd  were  those  of  the  mob 
trying  to  find  itself.  Given  work  to  do  and  that  crowd 
would  solidify  into  compact  mob  form.  As  it  was,  no 
one  could  say  what  it  might  do  next.  The  indifferent 
observer  might  have  compared  this  aimlessness  with  that 
of  cattle  milling  around  and  around  in  a  storm.  On 
closer  inspection,  one  might  have  seen  by  their  eyes  that 
each  man  was  fighting  with  himself  for  the  solution  of  an 
apparently  insoluble  problem.  The  mob  spirit  had  not 
yet  blotted  out  the  individuals  in  its  irresistible  flood. 

Ruth's  appearance  on  the  platform  was  like  a  bolt  out 
of  the  sky.  The  loose-limbed  shuffling  stopped;  the  Hall 


Joey  the  Dreamer  247 

grew  ghastly  quiet,  every  eye  and  ear  was  riveted  upon 
her.  Only  there  was  one  sound  —  a  terrible  sound  — 
in  the  room;  that  of  a  score  of  men  panting  in  anger. 

Ruth  stood  quietly  near  the  edge  of  the  platform,  her 
hands  folded  before  her.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room, 
surcharged  with  hate  and  blackness,  had  made  her  sick 
at  heart.  She  was  deadly  pale. 

"Oh,  brothers!"  she  cried  in  anguish.  "What  is  it 
you  mean  to  do?" 

It  was  a  fatal  utterance.  She  had  disagreed  with 
them,  with  these  men  who  were  past  the  stage  of  listening 
to  reason.  She  had,  in  intent,  called  their  conduct 
wrong.  Their  breath  came  faster;  the  fire  in  their  eyes 
glowed  with  more  deadly  purpose.  All  at  once  they  had 
become  her  antagonists.  Still  they  made  no  move. 
The  mob  spirit  was  mastering  them  slowly. 

"Stop  and  think,  friends,"  begged  Ruth.  "Can  two 
wrongs  right  one  wrong?  Can  it  do  us  any  good  to  do 
harm  because  some  one  has  harmed  us?  Think  of  what 
the  result  will  be!  Think  of  those  who  will  suffer!  Oh, 
brothers,  you  must  not  do  this.  You " 

She  got  no  further.  Every  word  that  she  uttered 
had  been  received  as  exactly  opposite  from  what  she 
hoped  and  intended.  She  was  speaking  against  them. 
And  they  were  beyond  reason. 

"Aw!"  roared  a  voice.  "She's  plugging  for  the 
Comp'ny!  Her  and  her  guy  are  plugging  for  the 
Comp'ny!" 

That  was  all;  it  was  enough.  The  crowd  had  a  common 
idea. 


248  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Plugging  for  the  Comp'ny!     Sure!" 

And  in  that  second  the  crowd  ceased  to  be. 

It  was  a  mob  now.  Fists  went  into  the  air  shaking 
threateningly  at  the  speaker. 

"Don't  give  us  any  more  of  that.     You're  for  them!" 

The  room  shook  with  oaths  and  the  stamping  of  feet. 
They  were  threatening  her.  Even  she  had  lost  her 
hold  on  them.  They  were  ready  to  hurt  her.  But 
suddenly  a  boy  stuck  his  head  in  the  doorway. 

"Hi!  hi!"  he  screamed.  "The  wagons  is  coming;  the 
wagons  is  coming!" 

"Ah!"  roared  the  mob,  and  started  for  the  street. 

"Wait!     Please,  please  wait!"  cried  Ruth. 

"Plugging  for  the  Comp'ny!" 

The  mob  stopped.  The  movement  of  its  thoughts 
was  like  quicksilver  in  sand.  Attention  flew  from  the 
street  back  to  Ruth.  Then,  unconsciously,  came  the 
question:  Why  go  out  into  the  street? 

Why,  indeed!  Here  it  had  before  it  an  object  to  hate. 
This  was  what  it  longed  for;  this  thirst  for  a  quarry,  for 
its  rage  was  one  of  the  parents  of  its  being.  For  the 
moment  the  strike,  the  impending  crisis,  was  forgotten. 
The  mob  stood  still,  panting.  Its  prey  was  here  before 
it,  almost  within  arm's  reach,  so  close  as  to  offer  prospect 
of  immediate  gratification  of  its  terrible  master  passion. 
The  breath  of  the  mob  grew  faster,  hotter.  And  then, 
like  a  pack  of  wolves  suddenly  swerving  from  the  trail  of 
a  scent  to  the  helpless  doe  within  sight,  it  checked  its 
movement  toward  the  street.  For  an  instant  it  was 
jammed  together  as  two  waves  in  the  meeting;  then  its 


Joey  the  Dreamer  249 

course  determined,  it  surged  sidewise  once,  drunkenly, 
and  came  rolling  back  toward  the  platform,  its  front  a  sea 
of  angry  fists  and  eyes,  its  body  a  black  mass  of  unsteady 
forms  quivering  with  the  terrible  motion  of  the  whole. 

One  man,  singly  and  alone,  going  into  battle,  still  is 
an  individual,  a  human  being.  He  retains,  though  un- 
consciously and  probably  unwillingly,  the  marks  whereby 
his  fellows  have  come  to  distinguish  him  from  the  rest 
of  his  kind,  the  singularities  of  his  person  and  personality 
still  are  with  him.  The  elemental  passion  of  fight  has 
altered,  but  not  destroyed  him. 

With  the  mob  it  is  a  different  matter.  The  individual 
is  submerged,  killed,  in  an  instant.  The  mob  spirit 
becomes  dominant.  Each  man,  as  he  comes  under  its 
sway,  sheds  those  definitive  qualities  which  have  marked 
him  as  a  distinct  being,  as  a  man,  and  he  becomes  a  mere 
tool  for  the  mysterious  whims  of  the  ruling  spirit  to  mould 
and  work  at  will.  The  crowd  thus  becomes  no  group  of 
individuals.  Each  member  is  but  an  over-mastered 
contribution  to  the  whole  in  which  none  retains  a  distinc- 
tion from  the  rest.  The  mob  rushing  to  its  work  is  not 
a  number  of  human  beings  on  the  move;  it  is  a  senseless 
elemental  force,  as  raw,  as  primitive  as  the  maddened 
stampede  of  cattle,  as  mysterious  as  the  wail  of  the 
moon-struck  wolf.  The  day  after,  men  look  sheepishly 
at  one  another  and  think:  "What  was  it?  What  did 
it  mean?"  But  in  the  minutes  of  action  no  question  is 
asked,  no  reason  admitted. 

Ruth  remained  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  platform, 
her  hands  folded  before  her,  as  when  she  had  begun 


250  Joey  the  Dreamer 

speaking.  She  did  not  move  or  speak.  Her  expression 
had  in  it  not  the  slightest  indication  of  surprise  or  fear. 
But  she  was  very  sorry. 

As  individuals,  or  under  any  other  possible  circum- 
stance than  that  which  now  ruled  and  ordered  it,  the 
crowd  could  not  have  been  forced  to  offer  a  threat  of 
violence  to  the  modest  little  figure  that  faced  them 
so  calmly.  As  a  mob,  it  yelped  joyfully  its  terrible 
intentions.  The  passion  was  stirred  in  it;  before  its 
eyes  was  the  means  of  gratification;  it  needed  but  to 
lay  hands 

"Ah!    A-a-ah!" 

The  storm  broke  without  ceremony.  The  pudgy 
young  man  directly  before  me  had  heaved  the  stone  he 
was  saving  for  the  wagons,  and  soon  after  he  was  lying 
on  the  floor,  face  up,  and  I  was  leaping  over  him  and 
fighting  through  to  the  platform.  Some  small  skill 
in  these  things,  developed  at  school  and  neglected  after- 
ward, returned  with  the  speed  of  inspiration.  The  two 
months  spent  in  camp  were  godsends.  It  was  work 
that  one  must  be  in  condition  to  do. 

The  suddenness  and  unexpectedness  of  it  left  the 
crowd  paralyzed  for  an  instant,  and  I  gained  the  plat- 
form. It  is  the  offensive  that  counts  in  such  affairs. 
An  aimless  crowd  stands  dumfounded  against  one  man 
with  an  apparently  definite  plan  of  action.  The  heavy 
table  came  up  overhead  and  dropped,  a  splendid  missile, 
on  the  heads  nearest  the  platform,  shattering  the  mob's 
front  and  for  a  moment  breaking  the  compactness  which 
was  the  soul  of  its  being. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  251 

I  turned  to  the  door  behind  us.  It  was  locked.  Two 
or  three  kicks,  and  my  foot  went  through  the  panel,  and 
with  the  hole  thus  made  the  flimsy  door  was  easily  torn 
to  pieces.  Another  stone  had  been  thrown  at  me,  and 
Ruth  had  moved  between  me  and  the  mob.  When  I 
turned  she  was  down  on  her  knees,  coughing  and  pressing 
both  hands  to  her  breast.  For  a  moment,  at  the  sight  of 
this,  the  yells  ceased.  In  the  lull  I  picked  Ruth  up  in 
my  arms  and  carried  her  through  the  floor  and  out  of 
their  sight,  into  the  darkness  beyond.  Behind  us  the 
mob  resumed  its  progress. 

We  found  ourselves  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  stairs. 
At  the  top  of  these  another  door,  unlocked.  Beyond  the 
door,  the  clean,  welcome  sunlight  of  broad  day.  The 
stairs  led  from  the  Hall  directly  to  the  roof. 

And  Ruth  lay  in  my  arms  and  on  my  breast.  Her 
hair,  golden  brown  in  the  sun,  was  against  my  throat, 
and  one  of  her  arms  was  clasped  instinctively  around  my 
neck.  And  a  summer  breeze,  playing  vagrantly  over  the 
gravelled  house  tops,  lifted  a  wisp  of  hair  and  brushed 
it  against  my  lips. 

"Are  you  hurt?     Oh!  are  you  hurt?" 

She  shook  her  head,  but  she  did  not  move,  nor  did  she 
remove  her  arm. 

"I  don't  think  I  am  hurt  at  all.     I  am  all  right." 

"Why  did  you  move  down  there?  Why  didn't  you 
stand  still?  That  stone  was  not  meant  for  you." 

But  she  made  no  answer.  I  held  her  more  tightly. 
And  now  I  knew  that  after  this  I  never  could  let  her  go, 
and  our  paths  must  be  one.  For  so  it  was  written.  And 


252  Joey  the  Dreamer 

I  knew  what  the  troubled  world  needed:  it  was  Love. 
I  placed  her  feet  upon  the  gravel,  still  holding  her  lest 
she  fall.  She  turned  away  for  a  moment,  and  when  she 
turned  back  she  was  buttoning  her  waist. 

"It  was  all  right,"  she  said  smiling.     "It  is  nothing." 

"Are  you  sure,  Ruth?   Quick!  They  may  be  up  soon." 

Her  slow,  patient  smile  lit  up  her  face,  and  she  shook 
her  head  slowly. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  she  said.  "I  don't  believe 
they  will  follow  us.  They  were  not  themselves  down 
there,  they  were  not  responsible.  They  did  not  know 
what  they  were  doing.  They  lost  all  control  and  reason 
for  that  awful  minute.  It  wasn't  any  more,  you  know; 
just  a  flash.  It  will  be  all  over  by  this  time,  and  they 
will  be  themselves  again.  Listen!  They're  not  coming, 
are  they?" 

I  threw  myself  back  to  the  door  and  peered  down  the 
stairs.  I  could  see  nothing,  but  on  the  floor  below  was 
the  shuffle  and  thud  of  rapidly  moving  feet.  Loud 
voices,  some  hoarse,  some  strident  under  the  sway  of 
anger,  came  indistinctly  up  the  stairway.  I  heard  the 
rattle  of  the  table  violently  overthrown.  An  instant 
latter  came  a  roar  that  shook  the  building,  a  new,  terrible, 
single-tongue  shriek  of  the  mob  that  made  child's 
play  of  all  that  had  gone  before.  Then  the  sound  of 
the  footsteps  grew  fainter  and  died  away,  and  I  turned 
back  to  Ruth. 

"Evidently  they've  changed  their  minds,"  I  said. 

"They  have  gone  into  the  street,"  said  Ruth.  "They 
have  gone.  I  did  nothing.  I  did  not  reach  them.  I 


Joey  the  Dreamer  253 

could  not  make  them  see.  Oh!  how  helpless  and  useless 
I  am.  Some  one  else  in  my  place  could  have  saved  them 
from  this  terrible  mistake." 

"No  one  on  earth  could  have  done  it.  They  were 
mad.  Ah!  There  they  go." 

Up  from  the  street  there  came  that  cry  which  men 
dread  to  dream  of  once  they  have  heard  it  and  seen  what 
follows  —  the  cry  of  a  mob  beginning  its  work.  We  ran 
forward  to  the  front  of  the  building.  Below  us  the  crowd 
was  filling  the  Court  to  choking,  and  out  on  the  Avenue 
the  first  of  the  Company's  wagons  was  making  its 
appearance. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

OF  ALL  the  bad  scenes  that  have  fallen  to  the  lot 
of  Clay  Court  what  followed  was  the  worst  — 
the  most  harmful.  The  hurt  of  it  is  there  and 
elsewhere  to  this  day.  For  war  leaves  its  terrible  after- 
scars  no  less  in  the  secret  hearts  of  people  than  on  the 
face  of  earth,  and  this  was  war  as  it  was  in  the  beginning, 
primitive,  food-need  strife. 

To  make  it  all  clear  to  the  reader,  let  him  fancy  the 
Avenue,  as  a  great,  straight  river,  with  Clay  Court  empty- 
ing into  it  like  a  short,  straight  slip.  To  the  little 
building-locked  Court  the  great  wide  thoroughfare  spelled 
the  great  wide  world,  and  now  it  proceeded  to  turn  the 
world  into  a  fiery  little  hell. 

Since  morning  the  street  had  been  electric  with  the 
atmosphere  of  impending  crisis.  Small  boys  had  been 
fighting  intermittently,  restlessly  anticipating  the  grim 
scenes  which  their  elders  soon  were  to  portray.  They 
varied  their  squabbling  with  sudden  and  undirected  duty 
as  scouts,  dashing  out  into  the  big  Avenue  and  spurting 
south  toward  the  silent,  police- guarded,  teaming  yards. 
Skinny  Wernicky  had  won  an  hour's  fervid  fame  by 
penetrating  to  the  police  circle  and  bringing  fleetly  back 
the  news  that  the  wagons  were  getting  ready.  Scuff 
McHealy  went  him  one  better  a  little  later  by  getting 

254 


Joey  the  Dreamer  255 

arrested  at  the  factory  door.  Skinny  grew  fiercely 
jealous  when  he  heard  the  news. 

The  activities  of  the  boys  were  indications  of  what 
was  passing  in  the  minds  of  the  men.  Around  the  saloon 
they  had  gathered  at  an  early  hour,  deserting  it  only  for 
the  richer  meat  of  the  final  meeting.  Yet  it  was  not  a 
liquor-maddened  crowd  that  now  filled  the  street.  Their 
drunkenness  was  madder  and  deeper,  founded  on  fiercer 
material  and  spurred  by  fiercer  devils  than  dwell  in 
whiskey.  They  were  drunk,  terribly  drunk,  with  the 
mob  spirit,  and  rumbling  steadily  as  the  clouds  about  to 
hurl  a  storm. 

All  morning  they  had  rumbled,  recited  over  and  over 
again  to  one  another,  between  set  teeth,  the  tale  of  their 
wrongs,  cursing  all  order,  and  swearing  with  fierce  joy 
over  the  prospect  of  revenge.  A  holiday  spirit  seemed 
to  actuate  most  of  them.  For  once  they  had  renounced 
the  rules  and  bonds  that  bound  them.  No  longer  were 
they  heavily  servile  and  sullen  as  had  been  their  wont. 
They  were  free.  They  had  cast  off  the  sense  of  obedience 
to  the  prevailing  order  of  things.  They  were  going  to 
upset  them  —  overthrow  them.  Those  wagons  of  the 
Factory  Company  were  symbolic  of  all  that  they  had 
feared  and  hated.  As  they  were  overthrown,  so  would 
the  things  they  stood  for  be  overthrown.  It  was  revolt, 
it  was  revolution! 

Men  laughed  in  harsh  fashion  and  pushed  their  shirt 
sleeves  up  on  hairy  forearms  with  excited  hands.  They 
jostled  one  another  on  the  narrow  walk,  overflowed  into 
the  street;  and  the  younger  did  jig  steps  among  the 


256  Joey  the  Dreamer 

rotting  paving  blocks,  while  the  terrible  mob  poured 
pell-mell  out  of  the  hall  into  the  street. 

For  a  moment  the  narrow  place  boiled  with  disorder. 
So  suddenly  had  the  word  come,  that  women  were  nursing 
babes  on  the  doorstep  when  the  first  blow  was  struck. 
Two  things  happened  of  similar  impressiveness :  the  men 
lurched  toward  the  Avenue  with  instinctive  fierceness, 
and  out  of  every  doorway  came  a  woman  who  drove  into 
the  crowd,  captured  one  or  two  excited  children,  and 
dragged  them  bawling  to  the  shelter  of  in-doors. 

One  pursued  her  offspring  into  a  saloon,  whither  he 
fled  to  escape  maternal  wrath.  Another  picked  her 
latest  infant  from  the  curb,  bore  it  in-doors  and  calmly 
seated  herself  at  a  window  to  give  it  breast. 

A  girl  folded  her  arms  on  a  window  ledge  and  called 
to  some  one  in  the  crowd:  "Won't  it  be  awful  fer  you 
tuh  get  that  purty  face  cracked!" 

"Gowan,  I'll  come  back  an'  hit  yer  a  slap  in  the  face 
when  I'm  through,"  retorted  the  object  of  scorn. 

"Dinny!"  called  an  old  woman  peering  into  a  hall- 
way. "Dinny,  where  be  ye,  scut,  whin  all  the  fun's 
a-goin'  on?" 

"Gettun*  meh  tools,"  retorted  Dinny,  appearing  with 
a  flat-iron  in  each  hand. 

"Ee-you-now ! "  screamed  the  crowd.  "There  they 
are.  Come  on,  boys!" 

Upon  a  window  cornice  a  mother  sparrow  chirped 
shrilly,  warning  a  half-grown  young  one.  She  did  not 
know  what  was  going  on,  but  she  felt  the  brewing  of  an 
ugly  storm. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  257 

The  wagons  came  on.  Slowly,  ponderously,  two  great 
bay  horses  drew  into  sight,  noble  beasts,  ramping  with 
good  feeding,  shiny  from  care,  and  excited  to  the  prancing 
stage  by  the  noise  and  motion  about  them.  Their  thick, 
strong  necks  bent  in  graceful  arches  as  they  answered 
the  taut-held  rein;  the  foam  flew  from  their  mouths, 
flecking  their  shiny  collars,  and  one  could  see  the  big 
veins  beneath  the  tight  skin.  They  were  beautiful  — 
the  only  object  the  eye  might  find  that  merited  this 
description  —  and  the  load  that  they  drew  was  play  for 
them.  The  wagon  swayed  and  jerked  as  they  danced 
in  their  impatience. 

Upon  the  driver's  seat  sat  a  white  thin-faced  man  with  a 
soft  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  He  looked  neither  to 
right  nor  left;  his  eyes  never  left  the  backs  of  the  animals 
he  was  guiding.  Beside  him  was  a  police  officer,  his 
coat  thrown  open  and  a  soft  black  tie  flapping  on  a  white 
plaited  shirt  front.  The  officer  sat  with  his  left  hand  on 
his  hip,  his  right  resting  loosely  on  his  knee.  His  little 
deep-sunk  eyes  ran  from  one  side  to  the  other  with  a 
regularity  that  was  almost  mechanical;  and  at  times  his 
left  hand  tugged  nervously  at  his  loosened  collar.  The 
driver  had  eyes  only  for  his  horses. 

Such  was  the  picture  as  the  first  wagon  rolled  out  into 
plain  sight  of  all  who  were  in  Clay  Court  at  the  time. 

Then  things  happened  with  a  swiftness  that  taxed  the 
eye  to  follow.  Out  from  a  doorway  on  the  Avenue  flew 
a  lithe,  athletic  figure  with  something  brassy  shining  on 
his  clinched  knuckles.  Like  the  flash  of  a  mad  acrobat 
he  seemed  to  fly  from  the  curb  to  a  front  hub,  then  up  on 


258  Joey  the  Dreamer 

to  the  seat  and  into  a  grapple  with  the  policeman.  Once, 
twice,  the  brass  knuckles  flashed  in  the  sun.  At  the  first 
blow  the  officer's  helmet  flew  from  his  head,  at  the  second 
he  became  a  huddled  lump  on  the  seat.  From  somewhere 
in  Clay  Court  came  at  the  same  time  the  counterpart  of 
the  officer's  assailant,  another  thin,  wiry  young  man,  who 
throttled  the  driver  before  his  hand  could  reach  the 
revolver  in  his  covered  pocket. 

Then  the  flood  broke.  Clay  Court,  like  a  pent-up  stream, 
broke  loose  and  poured  itself  out  on  to  the  wagon.  Every 
doorway  became  a  volcano  spouting  human  beings, 
every  being  shrieked  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Knives 
flashed.  The  taut  traces  were  cut,  snapping  at  the 
slash,  like  straining  hawsers,  and  the  two  great  horses, 
suddenly  freed,  reared,  leaped  sideways  once,  and  went 
at  a  maddened  gallop  down  the  Avenue. 

The  crowd  roared.  Two  score  hands  found  hold  on 
one  side  of  the  wagon.  Another  roar.  The  heavy  vehicle 
rose  swiftly,  balanced  for  an  instant  on  two  wheels,  then 
toppled  upside  down  with  a  crash. 

"Oil!    Oil!     Get  some  oil!" 

"Eyah!     Burn  the  wagon!     Kill  'em!" 

The  officer  lay  where  he  had  fallen  near  the  curb.  The 
driver,  white  and  silent,  was  fighting  near  him  with  a 
skill  that  explained  his  choice  for  the  post  of  danger. 
He  was  a  wild-cat  who  knew  the  value  of  straight  punch- 
ing. His  fists  flashed  out  straight  from  the  shoulders  like 
twin  bullets  of  flesh  and  bone,  and  two  men  went  down 
like  hammered  cattle,  ere  one  dove  in  and  got  a  body 
hold.  Then  some  one  struck  from  behind  and  the 


Joey  the  Dreamer  259 

driver  stretched  face  down  on  the  pavement.  There  was 
a  red  smudge  where  his  white  face  met  the  mud, 
and  then  the  officers  from  the  other  wagon  charged,  and 
the  war  was  on. 

The  mouth  of  Clay  Court  suddenly  became  a  battle 
field.  Here  the  mob  took  its  stand,  here  the  officers 
pounded  savagely,  and  here  a  fight  took  place  that  the 
police  tell  of  to  this  day. 

The  front  of  the  mob  fought  back  in  almost  solid  order. 
From  the  rear  cobble  stones  fell  on  the  officers'  heads, 
and  a  fusillade  of  the  same  from  roofs  and  windows  bore 
testimony  to  much  thoughtful  preparation. 

The  officers  were  stopped.  In  the  hand-to-hand  fight- 
ing, the  mob  was  handing  back  as  good  as  it  received. 
Enraged  beyond  all  reason  or  order,  the  officers  ceased 
for  the  while  to  be  machines  of  authority  and  became  mere 
maddened  individuals,  fighting  to  maim  and  disable 
assailants  who  were  hurting  them.  The  clubs  rose  and 
fell  as  they  closed.  Officer  and  mobsman  clutched  at 
each  other's  throats  and  fell  rolling  in  the  mud,  fighting 
for  a  hickory  stick  with  a  fierceness  as  if  for  life  itself.  He 
who  went  down  underneath  was  the  fortunate  one,  for 
the  uppermost  at  once  became  a  target  for  heavy 
kicks. 

Soon  the  officers  were  on  the  defensive.  They  were 
out-numbered  and  out-fought.  A  moment  later  they 
were  beaten  —  licked.  The  mob  triumphed  for  the  nonce. 
Helmetless,  their  uniforms  torn  and  faces  bloody,  the 
squad  drew  back  into  the  Avenue.  A  fresh  attack  sent 
them  on  the  run  back  to  the  line  of  stalled  wagons. 


260  Joey  the  Dreamer 

There  they  drew  up  panting,  awaiting  reinforcements, 
and  the  mob  howled  gleefully  and  improved  its  moment 
of  triumph  by  firing  the  overturned  wagon. 

Up  Avenue  rang  the  clang  of  patrol  wagons.  One, 
two,  three,  four,  of  them.  On  the  gallop  they  came  and 
poured  their  loads  into  the  midst  of  the  defeated  squad, 
while  the  mob  scrambled  busily  for  new  weapons,  and 
part  of  it,  with  a  generalship  that  seemed  too  calm  for 
that  hot-blooded  hour,  drew  the  burning  wagon  squarely 
across  the  mouth  of  Clay  Court.  It  lay  there  blazing, 
a  barrier  which  the  police  must  pass  around. 

Out  in  the  Avenue  order  was  emerging  from  chaos.  An 
inspector  was  in  command.  He  placed  himself  in  the 
front.  The  officers  formed  behind  in  two  firm  lines. 

"Drive  them  back  first  and  let  the  wagons  pass,"  said 
the  inspector. 

"Stick!"  roared  the  mob  defiantly. 

The  inspector  was  a  police  machine.  His  uniform  was 
new,  the  velvet  on  the  collar  bright  and  high.  His 
moustache  was  curled,  his  hands  empty.  A  yard  in 
front  of  his  men  he  marched,  his  head  as  high,  his  step 
as  jaunty  as  when  he  led  his  squad  in  a  holiday  parade. 
He  was  impressive,  but  the  mob  laughed. 

Ten  feet  from  the  wagon  his  trained  eye,  moving  high 
and  low,  caught  sight  of  something  that  sputtered  like 
a  lighted  fire-cracker  on  the  ledge  of  an  upper  window  of 
the  corner  building,  and  he  smiled  up  at  the  window 
contemptuously . 

"Halt,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  Even  as  he  spoke  a 
yellow  arm  thrust  itself  out  of  the  window,  picked 


Joey  the  Dreamer1  261 

Up  the  sputtering  thing  and  hurled  it  down  at  the 
police  lines. 

It  looked  like  a  black  bottle  with  a  burning  wick  in  the 
neck  as  it  fell.  It  struck  squarely  on  the  burning  wagon. 
A  flash,  a  roar,  a  shaking  of  pavement,  buildings  and 
windows,  a  jarring  of  ear  drums  as  if  the  earth  had  been 
struck  a  mighty  blow.  A  great  puff  of  smoke.  Then 
the  clear  street  again.  The  debonair  inspector  was  rais- 
ing himself  from  the  ground.  The  wagon  was  gone. 
Scraps  of  it  lay  scattered  everywhere.  The  bomb, 
miserably  aimed,  had  blown  away  the  barricade  and 
harmed  not  a  living  soul. 

The  inspector  brushed  mud  from  his  cap. 

"Never  mind  him,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  the  window. 
"We'll  get  him  any  time.  Name's  Rinehart.  Now, 
drive  'em  back,  with  no  more  nonsense  and  let  the 
wagons  pass." 

Then  boomed  a  voice  from  the  other  side.  "Yes. 
Drive  them  back.  Come  and  see  what  you're  a-drivin' 
back." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  man  who  had  shouted  broke  through  and 
leaped  out  before  the  advancing  squad.  It 
was  Perkins. 

He  had  taken  no  part  in  the  morning's  disturbances. 
He  had  not  been  in  the  Hall,  had  had  no  share  in  the 
talking  and  drinking  that  preceded  it.  All  morning  he 
had  sat  in  a  rocking-chair  in  his  front  room,  sullenly 
repelling  all  attempts  at  conversation  and  alternating 
his  study  of  the  bare  floor  with  a  careful  inspection  of  the 
"enlarged  photo"  of  a  young  man  in  a  foot-soldier's 
uniform  that  hung  on  the  wall.  The  picture  was  sup- 
posed to  resemble  Perkins's  father  as  he  was  some  time 
in  1863.  Above  the  picture  usually  there  hung  a  straggly 
piece  of  a  flag.  It  was  gone  now,  and  Perkins  sat  stolidly 
in  the  rocker  and  looked  from  floor  to  picture,  from 
picture  to  floor,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  waiting 
for  something  of  some  importance. 

He  had  not  drunk  a  drop;  his  pipe  had  remained  un- 
lighted.  Between  his  knees  his  great  hairy  hands  were 
folded  carefully;  and  he  had  taken  particular  care  to  see 
that  he  was  as  well  dressed  and  as  clean  as  was  possible 
for  him  then  and  there.  Outside  buzzed  the  hot-blooded 
talk;  high,  angry  words  floated  in  through  the  windows; 
and  the  steps  of  hurried  feet  upon  the  stairs  of  the  Hall 

MM 


Joey  the  Dreamer  263 

always  were  to  be  heard.  The  climax  of  the  meeting  had 
sent  forth  a  roar  that  shook  the  windows.  But  Perkins 
had  sat  and  rocked,  and  rocked,  and  looked  at  the  floor 
and  the  picture.  None  of  it  touched  him  or  heated  his 
blood  to  the  temperature  that  kills  reason.  He  was  of  a 
breed  that  has  learned  to  think  and  think  alone,  and 
still  acts  hotly. 

When  the  first  swelling  roar  told  that  the  wagons  were 
in  sight,  he  rose  slowly  stretching  himself  to  his  full,  loose 
height,  and  tested  each  joint  and  muscle  with  a  great 
raising  of  arms  and  legs.  Another  roar,  and  pushing 
back  his  sleeves  like  a  man  going  to  work  he  started  for 
the  door.  As  he  passed  it  he  smiled  bitterly  at  the 
picture  on  the  wall.  Then  he  went  out  in  the  street, 
coolly  shouldered  men  out  of  his  way,  and  stepped  forth 
alone  at  the  crucial  moment.  The  missing  flag  was  tied 
in  a  sash  around  his  waist. 

A  yard  to  the  fore  of  the  mob  he  stopped  with  the  air  of 
one  who  is  going  to  stay. 

"Get  back,  get   back   there!"  commanded  an  officer. 

Perkins  answered  not  a  word.  Like  a  man  of  stone 
he  awaited  the  shock,  head  thrust  forward,  sharp  eyes 
peering  fiercely  beneath  ragged  brows,  arms  rigid  and 
held  far  away  from  the  body,  legs  far  apart  and  stiff  at 
the  knees.  In  his  eyes  shone  the  light  that  came  from  the 
heart  of  him,  the  heart  of  the  breed  that  cannot  go  back 
once  it  has  decided  to  stay. 

"Get  back!" 

A  waste  of  words.  Like  throwing  water  against  a 
stone! 


264  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"Come  on,  ye  big  bluffer!" 

The  officer  was  a  scant  six  feet  away.  Here,  too,  was 
a  giant,  one  in  brass  buttons  and  with  a  club  in  his  hand. 
He  was  as  tall  as  Perkins,  and  heavier,  for  he  was  built 
and  fed  like  a  prize  bull,  and  under  his  helmet  flamed  the 
red  badge  of  his  kind.  He  was  a  good  fighting  machine, 
bred  for  the  work,  picked,  trained,  and  experienced  in 
a  harsh,  rough  school.  But  never  had  he  met  such  a 
man  as  Perkins. 

"Get  back!" 

The  officer  waved  his  club  like  a  long,  wagging  finger. 
Still  Perkins  did  not  move,  did  not  speak. 

The  officer  paused.  And  for  a  moment  they  stood 
face  to  face,  eying  one  another  with  that  comprehensive 
toe-to-skull  glance  with  which  fighting  men  compliment 
one  another.  Then  the  officer  drove  forward,  his  left 
hand  reaching  for  a  throat  hold  and  the  club  swinging 
wildly,  and  Perkins  hit  him  between  the  eyes  and  dropped 
him  in  his  tracks. 

A  breeze  sprang  up  and  for  an  instant  the  flag  at  his 
waist  flapped  briskly. 

The  attention  of  the  mob  and  the  officers  now  focussed 
on  the  new  champion. 

"Go  to  'em,  old  man!"  shrieked  the  mob.  "Knock 
their  blocks  off!" 

"Get  that  man,"  ordered  the  inspector.  "Get  that 
crazy  man  first  of  all." 

Then  the  fight  swirled  around  Perkins  like  a  whirlpool 
around  a  rock.  Like  a  rock  he  stood,  firm-planted, 
erect  and  defiant.  He  made  a  pile  of  blue  before  him 


Joey  the  Dreamer  2G5 

four  deep.  He  laughed  when  they  broke  his  nose;  he 
bellowed  when  his  fist  found  an  eye. 

It  was  too  fine,  too  grand  to  last.  A  club  fell  from 
behind  and  Perkins  staggered  under  the  blow.  He 
fastened  two  hands  like  clamps  on  an  officer's  throat. 
Another  blow,  then  another.  Perkins  let  go  his  hold  and 
went  down  under  a  mountain  of  blue  and  brass,  and  an 
officer  tore  the  crazy  sash  from  his  waist  as  he  fell. 

"Nuts.  Plain  nuts,"  said  the  inspector.  "The  bug- 
house for  him.  Now  get  the  rest;  get  'em  right." 

But  the  sight  of  Perkins  being  dragged  away  with  his 
head  rolling  limply  had  driven  the  iron  into  the  mob's 
soul.  The  die  had  been  cast.  The  war  was  on  to  a 
finish.  Those  police  uniforms  no  longer  stood  for 
authority,  but  as  the  insignia  of  an  enemy  with  which  to 
fight.  Order  had  been  overthrown;  the  mob  was  not 
afraid  of  the  brass  buttons. 

The  determined  charge  of  the  officers  fizzled  out. 
Their  lines  were  broken,  their  strength  as  a  body  scattered. 
They  became  merely  a  number  of  individuals  struggling 
with  twice  their  number.  The  gallant  inspector  had 
lost  his  cap. 

"By  golly,  this  is  something  new." 

The  inspector  drew  his  revolver. 

"They  need  strong  medicine,"  said  he. 

The  officers  followed  his  example. 

"  More  than  you  can  give  us,"  cried  the  mob. 

The  inspector  fired  into  the  air.     The  mob  laughed. 

"That's  serious,"  said  the  inspector. 

A  shot  from  the  rear  of  the  mob  answered  him.     Three 


266  Joey  the  Dreamer 

or  more  followed  it.     An  officer  grunted  and  sat  down 
with  his  hands  to  his  middle. 

"That's  hell,"  said  the  inspector.     He  stepped  forward. 

"I  order  you  to  disperse,"  said  he. 

"The  hell  you  say!"  laughed  the  mob. 

And  then  the  police  fired. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

GEE!"  said  Little  Joey,  sitting  upright  as  the 
bomb  shook  the  Tenement.  "What  an  awful 
noise!"  His  bed  leapt  an  inch  from  the  floor, 
rattled  and  grew  still. 

"I  wonder  what  that  could  'a'  been?"  said  Joey. 

He  was  feeling  quite  well  by  this  time,  was  Joey, 
although  he  was  very  weak.  He  wanted  very  much  to 
get  out  and  see  what  the  excitement  was  about.  Sitting 
up  in  bed,  however,  was  as  far  as  the  doctor  would  let 
him  go  in  his  present  condition.  He  was  all  right,  he 
told  himself,  but  he  had  to  stay  there  in  bed,  just  the 
same.  It  made  him  petulant.  He  strained  his  eyes  to 
hear  something  that  would  tell  the  nature  of  the  ex- 
plosion, but  nothing  offering,  he  flung  himself  back  on 
the  pillows,  muttering  because  he  was  not  in  it. 

"Gawd!    Oh,  my  Gawd!" 

Joey  sat  up  again.  The  voice,  like  a  groan,  was 
outside  his  door. 

"What  you  want?"  demanded  Joey. 

The  door  swung  open  and  closed  again,  and  Mr. 
Bruggers,  Joey's  father,  stood  in  the  room. 

"Hide  me,  Joey,  hide  me!"  cried  the  man  in  a  whisper. 
"Hide  me,  Joey.  Don't  let  'em  get  me." 

Mr.  Bruggers's  fingers  were  playing  with  the  buttons 

267 


268  Joey  the  Dreamer 

on  his  coat.  He  was  the  colour  of  a  spoiled  oyster.  His 
eyes  seemed  ready  to  pop  from  their  sockets. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  growled  Joey. 

"Don't!"  cried  Mr.  Bruggers.  "Joey!  Joey,  my 
only  boy!  Don't  throw  your  poor  old  dad  down  like 
that.  Hide  me,  Joey.  Help  me  make  my  get  away. 
Rinehart  made  his  all  right.  He's  the  one  who's  all  to 
blame  for  it.  He  promised  me  two  dollars.  He  only 
gave  me  one.  Then  he  —  he  did  it,  Joey;  I  didn't. 
I  swear  I  didn't,  swear  before  Gawd,  I  didn't.  Rinehart, 
he  says:  'Now,  both  together,'  but  he'd  only  gimme  one 
dollar.  'Gimme  the  other  dollar,'  I  sez,  'or  I  don't  throw.' 
And  I  didn't,  Joey,  I'll  swear  on  the  stand  I  didn't, 
I " 

"Aw,  what  yeh  talking  about?"  cried  Joey.  "What'd 
yeh  do?" 

"Nothing,  Joey,  I  swear  I  didn't  do  nothing.  'Both 
together,'  sez  Rinehart.  But  he'd  only  paid  me  half  of 
what  he  promised.  So  I  didn't  throw  mine.  He  was 
the  one  who  did  it,  he  —  he  was  the  only  one  that  threw." 

"Threw  what?" 

"The  bomb.     I  —  I- 

"Gee!"  said  Joey.     "Was  that  what  it  was?" 

"Yes,  yes.  Rinehart,  he  threw  it.  Boom!  it  went. 
I  didn't  throw.  He'd  only  paid  me  hah*.  Then  he 
ducked.  I  went  after  him  —  without  throwing.  'Gimme 
the  other  dollar!'  sez  I.  'Go  to  hell,'  sez  he.  I  follered 
him,  Joey,  without  throwing.  He  went  up  a  ladder  to 
the  roof.  I  went  after  him.  'Gimme  the  other  dollar,' 
sez  I,  and  he  slams  the  trap-door  down  on  my  fingers. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  269 

See  my  fingers,  Joey.      Smashed  your  poor  old  dad's 
fingers.     I 

Somebody  shouted  in  the  stairway. 

"Hide  me,  Joey.  Don't  tell  'em  I'm  here,  Joey;  your 
old  dad,  you  know!"  and  Mr.  Bruggers  with  an  unprint- 
able shriek  dove  to  the  floor  and  crawled  under 
Joey's  bed. 

"Go  wan,"  said  Joey.  "They  ain't  nobody  coming 
up  here." 

"Oh,  yes,  they  are,  Joey,"  wailed  Mr.  Bruggers  through 
the  mattress!  "Yes,  they  are,  Joey.  They're  after  me. 
They're  trying  to  get  me.  They'll  jail  your  poor  old 
daddy,  Joey,  and  it  wasn't  me  —  it  wasn't  me,  at  all." 

"Aw,  what  yeh  talking  'bout?"  said  Joey. 

"He  killed  people,  Joey." 
'Huh?" 

"No,  there  wasn't  —  It  didn't  hurt  anybody,  did  it, 
Joey?  It  was  only  a  little  one,  Gawd!  what  a  noise  it 
made.  Boom!  I  can  hear  it  now.  Joey!  Joey!  Did 
you  hear  was  anybody  —  anybody  —  hurt?  Hah? 
Did  you  hear?" 

"Aw,"  said  Joey,  "I  dunno  what  you're  talking 
'bout.  How  can  I  know?" 

All  the  time  that  this  conversation  was  going  on,  Joey 
had  been  trembling  all  over,  as  if  he  were  horribly 
frightened,  although  he  was  far  from  being  afraid  of  his 
father  in  that  gentleman's  present  condition.  The  tears 
were  running  down  Joey's  face,  bitter  tears  such  as  he 
never  had  shed  before.  Why  he  was  afraid,  or  why  he 
cried,  it  is  very  probable  that  he  did  not  know.  (Bruggers 


270  Joey  the  Dreamer 

afterward  testified  that  the  little  fellow  was  trembling 
and  crying,  although  at  the  time  he  admitted  he  took  no 
notice  of  it.)  Bruggers,  too,  was  crying.  Under  the 
bed  he  gave  way  to  great,  hulking  sobs,  sobs  that  shook 
the  floor  and  cut  little  Joey  to  the  heart. 

"Pa!"  cried  the  little  fellow  in  anguish.  "Don't 
cry,  don't  cry,  pa.  There  ain't  nothing  wrong,  is 
there?" 

Still  Bruggers  sobbed,  and  still  the  bed  shook. 

"What  is  it,  pa?  "sobbed  Joey,leaning  over  and  looking 
for  his  parent.  "Don't  cry,  pa.  There  ain't  nobody 
after  you.  No,  there  ain't.  Sure." 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is,  Joey;  yes,  there  is.  They're  after 
me,  Joey;  they're  after  me." 

"Naw!  Naw,  they  ain't,  pa.  Honest,  pa,  honest. 
You're  all  right.  Please  don't  cry,  pa;  please  don't. 
You're  all  right,  pa;  sure,  you're  all  right." 

"Aw,  Joey!"  Bruggers's  wailing  ceased  abruptly. 
"Joey,  you're  a  good  boy  to  your  poor,  old  pa.  You 
Always  was  good." 

"That's  all  right,  pa,"  said  Joey.     "Don't  cry." 

"You  was  always  good  to  me,  Joey.  You're  a  good 
son,  Joey.  I  don't  know  what  we'd  'a'done  without 
you.  And  you're  getting  all  right  now,  ain't  you,  Joey?  " 

"Sure." 

"Getting  well,  ain't  you,  Joey?" 

"Sure." 

"Strong?"  Mr.  Bruggers's  voice  was  calm,  calm 
and  eager. 

"Sure." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  271 

"Joey."  Mr.  Bruggers  mellowed  his  tone  to  his  most 
honeyed  expression. 

"What  is  it,  dad?" 

"Joey." 

"Hah?" 

"You  think  —  you  think  you  could  get  up?  Just 
for  a  minute,  Joey,  just  for  a  minute?" 

"Why?     Why?" 

"'Cause  they're  after  me,  Joey,  they're  after  me.  I 
didn't  do  it,  though.  Rinehart,  he  threw  it.  Joey, 
please,  Joey,  run  down  and  see  if  any  one  was  killed. 
Will  you,  Joey?  Will  you,  please,  for  your  poor  old 
dad.  I'm  gone,  Joey,  if " 

"Sure!"  said  Joey  throwing  off  the  covers.  "Sure, 
I  will,  pa." 

His  father's  condition  had  disturbed  him.  The  blood 
was  pumping  into  his  head  at  a  rate  that  made  him  dizzy. 
He  slid  off  the  side  of  the  bed  and  was  surprised  to 
find  how  easy  walking  was  for  him.  He  seemed  to  float 
along  the  floor. 

"Sure,  I'll  go  and  see,  pa,"  he  said.  "Don't  be  'fraid, 
pa.  You're  all  right." 

"Good  boy,  Joey,"  sobbed  Bruggers.     "Hurry  back." 

And  the  police  fired! 

Joey  had  paddled  down  the  stairs  and  was  in  the 
Tenement  doorway  at  that  moment.  He  had  stopped, 
bewildered  and  shocked  motionless  by  the  scene  before 
him.  Then  came  the  volley. 

The  effect  of  such  a  volley  on  a  tightly  packed  crowd 
is  to  be  likened  only  to  that  of  an  explosion.  One  instant 


272  Joey  the  Dreamer 

the  mob  presents  the  appearance  of  a  solid;  the  next  it  is 
torn  and  shattered  as  if  smitten  by  a  single,  devastating 
force.  There  is  a  lull,  a  moment  of  stupefied  silence. 
The  crowd,  which  a  second  before  pressed  jeeringly 
toward  the  little  revolvers,  is  aghast.  An  expression 
of  incredulity  goes  over  its  face;  it  stands  numbed, 
speechless,  gasping  at  the  fulfilment  of  the  threat  it  has 
laughed  at.  Then  it  breaks  forth  suddenly  into  murder- 
ous, suicidal  rage,  or  flees  abjectly  according  to  the  nature 
of  the  individuals  composing  it. 

So  had  the  crowd  in  Clay  Cour  jeered,  and  so  it  grew 
still  as  the  revolvers  answered.  It  drew  back,  pressing 
closely  against  the  walls,  into  doorways  and  hallways, 
seeking  to  remove  itself  from  the  unbelievable  horror 
that  it  had  seen  created.  The  street  itself  was  empty  — 
except  for  three  men.  Two  of  these  lay  where  they  had 
fallen.  The  other  was  Dinny  Noonan.  Somehow 
Dinny  had  managed  to  get  a  bullet  in  his  worthless  car- 
cass, and  it  was  troubling  him  sorely.  He  lay  on  all- 
fours  near  the  curb  before  the  Tenement  and  strove 
to  get  on  his  feet.  He  rose  a  little,  fell  heavily,  rose 
and  again  fell.  He  fell  toward  the  curb;  he  was  trying 
to  get  away  from  the  solid  blue  line  behind  him.  The 
line  stood  with  revolvers  ready;  the  crowd  let  Dinny 
struggle  while  it  drew  away  in  terror  from  those 
menacing  muzzles. 

Then  occurred  that  which  Clay  Court  for  long  after 
was  prone  to  believe  an  apparition;  Little  Joey,  very  thin 
and  small  in  his  night-gown,  pale,  tousled-haired,  and 
strangely  clean,  came  running  out  of  the  Tenement  into 


Joey  the  Dreamer  273 

the  cleared  street,  calling  in  his  clear  child's  voice,  "  I'll 
help  you,  Dinny,  I'll  help  you,"  and  taking  one  of  Dinny's 
arms  he  tried  to  lift  him  to  his  feet.  It  was  much  too 
much  for  him,  and  he  began  to  sob  bitterly,  tugging  at 
the  shot-numbed  body  and  all  the  time  repeating:  "I'll 
help  you,  Dinny;  I'll  help  you."  As  Dinny's  haunches 
sagged  helplessly  to  the  ground,  Joey  threw  both  arms 
around  his  neck  and  wailed:  "Oh,  Dinny,  Dinny! 
Please  don't,  Dinny,  please!" 

He  was  the  centre  of  the  scene.  They  watched  him  in 
awe  and  without  a  word,  officers  and  mobmen.  It  was 
so  still  that  every  word  he  spoke  was  heard  by  all. 

"Mother  of  Christ!"  murmured  an  officer  and  threw 
his  weapon  on  the  ground.  "The  saints  forgive  us." 

He  ran  forward  with  empty  hands,  for  he  had  children 
of  his  own,  this  man. 

"He's  all  right,  little  boy,"  he  said  huskily.  "He's 
all  right." 

He  swept  Joey  up  with  one  arm  and  ran  on  into  the 
Tenement  hallway. 

"In  with  you!"  he  cried,  setting  the  boy  down.  "In- 
side with  you  —  and  stay  in." 

Then  he  turned  to  do  battle  with  the  crowd  that 
waylaid  him  at  the  door. 

But  Joey  had  given  the  inspector  his  opportunity. 
The  mob  was  broken.  More  officers  had  unloaded  in 
the  Avenue. 

"Clear  the  street.     Every  officer  make  an  arrest." 

It  was  easy  now.  The  mob-spirit  was  gone.  The 
crowd  was  merely  a  number  of  ill-fed  individuals.  They 


274  Joey  the  Dreamer 

ran  like  sheep  and  fought  half-heartedly  when  captured. 
An  officer  would  single  out  his  man,  leap  upon  him  from 
behind,  bear  him  down,  overpower  him  and  drag  him 
out  to  the  line  of  patrol  wagons  on  the  Avenue.  The 
thing  worked  by  system.  As  a  wagon  was  filled  the 
door  was  slammed  and  the  load  sent  away  at  the  trot. 
One  afte  another  they  went.  There  were  dead  men, 
wounded  men,  captured  men.  The  wagons  carted  them 
all  away,  and  presently,  as  a  reporter  wrote  that  evening, 
"little  remains  save  broken  windows,  shattered  doors, 
bullet  marks  on  buildings,  bespattered  walks,  and  the 
hole  in  the  street  where  the  bomb  exploded,  to  indicate 
the  fierceness  of  the  riot.  A  squad  of  officers  under 
Inspector  Donahey  is  stationed  upon  the  scene.  Curious 
crowds  already  are  trying  to  obtain  bits  of  the  burnt 
wagon  as  souvenirs.  The  officers  at  times  are  forced 
to  use  strenuous  methods  in  controlling  the  throng 
of  sightseers." 

Little  remains!  Wonderful  words!  But  what  little 
there  was  rankles  in  the  hearts  of  Clay  Court  to  this  day; 
yes,  will  rankle  even  unto  the  next  generation. 

Tuesday,  August  —  ,  19  — .  The  big  day  had  come. 
The  struggle  had  passed.  Little  remains  —  but  for 
Clay  Court  to  hunt  new  work  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

TUESDAY,  also,  we  must  remember,  was  the  day 
that  Freddy  had  planned  to  go  downtown  for 
his  fiddlestrings.  He  went  in  the  morning, 
for  Delia  and  he  had  planned  a  wonderful  car  ride  into 
the  country  in  the  afternoon. 

"We  can  just  get  on  a  car  and  ride,  and  keep  on  riding, 
and  get  off  and  pick  the  tall  grass,  and  stay  as  long  as  we 
please  without  caring  whether  the  whistle  blows  or  not," 
he  explained  as  they  drew  their  plans. 

"Hurry  back,"  she  said  as  she  kissed  him  farewell 
before  starting  down  town.  "I'll  be  nervous  till  you're 
here." 

It  was  when  the  crowd  was  beginning  to  flock  toward 
the  Hall. 

"This  thing's  got  me  leery,"  said  Delia.  "Let's  blow 
it  as  quick  as  we  can.  It's  —  it's  no  place  for  us."  Her 
eyes  ran  nervously  over  the  angry  men,  and  something 
was  in  her  heart  which  neither  her  tongue  nor  her 
eyes  could  tell.  And  Freddy  had  nought  to  do  with 
the  disturbance. 

"No  place  at  all,  yer  leddyship,"  agreed  Freddy. 
"I'll  hike  for  the  strings,  and  a  box  of  gumdrops,  then 
you  and  me  for  the  close- to- nature  stunts.  S'long." 

The  young  part  that  way  in  Clay  Court.  Hearts  swell 

275 


276  Joey  the  Dreamer 

or  break;  life  opens  up  in  a  vista  of  hope  or  shuts  down 
with  the  clap  of  doom;  the  one  concerned  shrugs 
his  shoulder,  makes  a  grimace,  and  searches  his  soul 
for  something  flippant  and  smart  to  say  to  pass  the 
thing  over. 

"S'long,"  said  Delia,  though  she  was  ice  cold  all  over. 

"Hah?"  said  Freddy  turning.  Her  face  was  like  a 
mask. 

"Nothing.  Go  on  with  you."  He  kissed  her  again. 
Then  he  swung  away. 

Delia  remembered  that  kiss.  It  was  the  last  time 
that  Freddy  kissed  her. 

It  took  Freddy  much  longer  to  get  the  fiddlestrings 
than  he  had  expected.  The  old  German  from  whom  he 
purchased  his  supplies  was  inquisitive.  Why  new  strings 
now?  Furthermore,  he  had  a  new  violin  in  stock  —  a 
worthy  instrument.  He  placed  it  in  Freddy's  hands. 
Freddy  picked  at  it,  he  placed  it  against  his  cheek,  and 
he  played,  and  played,  and  the  minutes  slipped  by.  But 
the  old  German  stood  and  stared  at  him  with  stiff, 
disappointed  eyes. 

"Nein!"  he  exploded.  "Dere  iss  someding  wrong. 
Id  iss  nod  deh  violin?  No?  Den  you  are  in  trouble? 
Yess?" 

Freddy  shook  his  head,  smilingly,  and  played  on,  with 
his  thoughts  on  Delia. 

"Nah!"  The  old  man  took  back  the  beloved  violin 
and  bow  with  a  jerk.  "Marry  her  den.  Gedt  id  off 
your  mind,  my  boy.  Den  perhaps  you  play  as  once  you 
did.  Bud  now  —  voman  —  voman  —  voman;  id  is  all 


Joey  the  Dreamer  277 

dat  is  in  your  soul;  and  del  violin  —  like  a  dog  you  treat 
id.  So!" 

"Right  you  are,  old  Smearcase,"  laughed  Freddy, 
gaily.  "And  I  got  a  date  that'll  be  late  now.  S'long, 
Dutch." 

Then  at  last  Freddy  hurried,  but  no  man  born  of  woman 
can  hurry  fast  enough  to  overtake  the  machinations  of 
Fate,  and  Freddy  reached  Clay  Court  at  the  moment 
when  the  charging  police  first  drove  back  the  crowd. 

He  was  chagrined.  Here  his  way  was  blocked  and  he 
would  have  to  wait  until  the  place  was  cleared  until  he 
could  see  Delia.  For  he  had  no  desire  or  intention  to 
engage  in  the  struggle.  To  wait  while  the  battle  raged 
he  stepped  into  a  sheltering  hallway.  Fatal  hallway. 
On  the  lower  steps  sat  half  a  dozen  young  men,  their 
tense,  expectant  attitudes  proving  that  they  were  wait- 
ing. One  of  the  foremost  chewed  gum  with  passionate 
energy.  He  was  white  of  face,  and  his  eyes  burned  with 
the  flame  of  Fear.  But  he  was  the  leader. 

"H'lo,  Freddy!"  he  greeted.  Freddy's  entrance 
served  to  relieve  the  tension.  "You  waiting  for  a  good 
chance  to  slough  some  one,  too?" 

"Hah?"  Freddy's  eyes  opened  in  surprise. 

"D'you  come  in  here  to  lay  for  *em?" 

"Is  that  what  you're  doing  here?"  said  Freddy. 

"Sure  thing.     Wait  until  you  see  what  comes  off." 

"Here  — !  I  don't  want  to  get  mixed  up  in  any  trouble." 

"You  don't  what?" 

"No  police  scrappin'  for  me.  I'm  out  of  it.  Nix  on 
that  for  me." 


278  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"You  are  likeh — 1  out  of  it!  Well,  I  should  say  not! 
What  yer  goin'  to  do  —  stool  pigeon  for  the  cops?  Hah?" 

"Ain't  going  to  do  anything.  Keep  out  of  it.  Mind 
my  own  business.  See!" 

"You  are  like  h  — 1  going  to  mind  your  own  business. 
You're  in  this,  too.  We're  all  in  it,  and  you're  no 
better'n  the  rest." 

"I  ain't."  Freddy  retreated  to  the  walk.  "I'm 
going  to  keep  my  mitts  clean  in  this,  I  tell  you." 

"You're  against  us  then,  eh?  If  you  ain't  with  us, 
you're  against  us." 

Freddy  now  was  in  the  street.  Suddenly  he  was  caught 
first  in  the  surging  crowd,  which,  shifting  its  base,  was 
wedged  tightly  against  the  walls.  He  was  bewildered. 
He  wanted  to  get  away.  He  struggled  against  the 
throng.  He  was  one  in  a  hundred.  The  mob  whipped 
him  off  his  feet,  milled  him  around,  and  held  him  prisoner, 
a  part  of  itself.  Fight  as  he  would  he  was  helpless. 
And  now  to  his  horror  he  saw  that  the  mob  had 
turned.  The  officers  had  drawn  back.  The  mob  with 
exultant  yelps  moved  forward.  He  was  a  carried  along, 
against  the  officers. 

In  a  frenzy  he  threw  both  arms  around  a  trolley  post 
and  sought  to  remain.  As  well  grasp  a  slippery  rock  in 
the  heart  of  a  merciless  rapid.  The  crowd  pressed  on, 
tore  him  from  his  moorings  with  its  pressure,  and 
bore  him  along. 

He  fought  to  get  away.  It  was  impossible.  He  saw 
the  officers;  he  wanted  to  scream  and  run  to  them  for 
protection.  One  of  them  dove  forward  and  broke  through 


Joey  the  Dreamer  279 

the  front  ranks  of  the  mob  straight  at  him.  Something 
hit  him  on  the  head.  It  was  minutes  before  he  remem- 
bered what  came  next  and  then  he  found  himself  standing 
upright,  swearing  with  a  brick  in  his  hand.  He  looked 
at  it  curiously  for  he  had  no  recollection  of  how  it  came  to 
be  there.  He  had  seen  the  others  stop  and  arm  them- 
selves. He  had  no  recollection  of  yielding  to  dominance 
of  the  mob  and  of  doing  the  same  thing.  He  tasted 
something  salty  and  realized  that  he  was  bleeding. 

An  officer  knocked  down  the  two  men  before  him,  and 
swung  his  club  high  for  a  third  blow.  Freddy  smashed 
the  brick  into  his  face  exactly  like  the  others.  The 
officer  dodged  but  not  enough.  The  blood  squirted  from 
a  long  cut  in  his  cheek.  Then  Freddy's  fist  was  in  his 
eye;  the  officer's  hand  was  at  Freddy's  throat;  and  locked 
together,  straining,  cursing,  slipping,  striking;  they  went 
down,  arose,  went  down,  and  arose  again.  Then  the 
officer,  clubless,  helmetless,  badly  beaten,  covered  his 
head  with  his  arms  and  ran  back  and  Freddy  was  left 
alone,  blood  on  his  lips,  his  nostrils  distended  and  the 
club  in  his  hands. 

"Throw  the  boots  into  'em!"  he  cried,  and  in  a  moment 
he  was  swallowed  up  and  became  only  a  howling,  fighting 
cog  in  a  howling,  fighting  mob,  and  the  mob  moved 
forward.  So  it  happened  that  Delia  and  the  car  ride 
were  quite  forgotten. 

When  Freddy  came  to  he  was  staggering  and  two 
officers  were  holding  him  with  firm  hands.  Two  other 
young  men  from  Clay  Court  —  two  of  those  who  had 
stood  in  the  hallway  —  similarly  staggering  and 


280  Joey  the  Dreamer 

bleeding,  and  similarly  held,  stood  beside  him.  Freddy 
heard  one  of  the  officers  speaking. 

"They  say  he's  dead;  he  died  in  the  wagon." 

"Ah,  ha!"  said  another.  "That'll  mean  that  these 
young  —  will  learn  what  it  means  to  kill  a  policeman." 

Freddy  looked  at  him  dully.  Things  were  rather 
indistinct.  He  fancied  it  was  like  being  drunk. 

"You  ain't  talking  at  me,  are  you?"  he  asked. 

The  officer  thrust  his  face  close  to  Freddy's  eyes. 

"You — !"  he  hissed.  "You  know  you're  in  it  up 
to  your  neck." 

"Talking  to  me?"  repeated  Freddy. 

"Don't  stall  me,"  retorted  the  officer,  "you're  in  it 
right." 

" In  it?  "  said  Freddy,  uncomprehending.     "  In  what?  " 

"The  killing,  you  young !" 

Then  the  meaning  of  the  scene  seeped  into  Freddy's 
club-fuddled  brain. 

"You  —  you  don't  mean  that — to  me  —  do  you?" 
he  whispered.  "Man  —  officer  —  I  —  I  wasn't  in  it. 
I  didn't  want  to  be  in  it.  Before  God,  I  was  just  going 
home  —  and  —  I  —  I  —  my  God  —  I " 

"Shut  up,"  said  the  officer.     "Here  comes  the  wagon." 

Delia  had  not  seen  the  riot.  Things  of  this  sort  she 
heartily  disliked,  especially  now  that  she  was  "free." 
They  were  unpleasant,  and  disturbing.  She  remained 
in-doors;  she  wasn't  interested.  Freddy,  she  knew,  was 
downtown  and  safe.  He  had,  of  course,  seen  the  riot, 
and  turned  back.  That  was  all  right.  He  would  come 
when  things  had  quieted  down;  yes,  he  would  come, 


Joey  the  Dreamer  281 

sure.  And  it  must  be  confessed  that  Delia  at  that 
time  didn't  care  greatly  what  happened  to  any  one  so 
long  as  Freddy  would  come  for  her  when  things  had 
quited  down. 

She  grew  apprehensive  when  the  riot  died  down  and  he 
didn't  come.  She  waited  nervously  awhile,  listened 
impatiently  to  the  details  of  the  fight,  to  the  tales  of  dead 
and  wounded,  and  eventually  she  went  out  into  the 
Avenue,  bareheaded  and  alone. 

A  boy  came  running  to  her  with  a  paper.  "They 
pinched  Freddy,"  he  announced.  Delia  took  the  paper 
and  read.  The  full  details  of  Freddy's  arrest  were  there, 
supplemented  by  the  news  that  he  had  helped  kill  Officer 
McGeoghan. 

"No,"  said  Delia,  "that  isn't  Freddy;  not  Freddy." 

But  she  read  again  and  saw  that  it  was.  Still  she 
continued  to  look  at  the  paper,  without  indicating  that 
the  type  carried  any  significance  for  her. 

"'Tain't  Freddy,"  she  repeated  shaking  her  head 
easily.  "No,  it  ain't  Freddy." 

And  then  like  a  rush  of  blood  her  mind  came  back  to 
her  from  the  blackness  whither  the  blow  had  driven  it, 
and  she  cried  out  aloud  as  only  women  cry  when  their 
mate  is  taken  from  them. 

"  'Tain't  Freddy!"  she  screamed,  throwing  the  paper 
into  the  boy's  face.  "You  lie!  You  lie!  'Tain't 
my  Freddy!" 

She  turned  and  went  down  the  Avenue,  bareheaded, 
alone,  her  dress  open  at  the  throat,  her  arms  rigid,  her 
fists  clinched  at  her  sides.  She  held  her  head  up  high 


282  Joey  the  Dreamer 

and  breathed  through  her  mouth,  and  people  stepped 
out  of  her  way  and  looked  after  her  when  she  had  passed. 

She  went  to  the  police  station,  now  a  black  inferno  of 
heated  stone  and  iron  filled  to  suffocation  with  one 
hundred  sweating,  clamouring  prisoners,  and  lorded  over 
by  officers  whose  menacing  eyes  reeked  hatred  for  all 
who  had  shared  in  the  day's  bad  work.  Delia  asked 
for  Freddy.  A  young  officer  insulted  her  casually  and 
grossly  with  a  question,  and  several  others  laughed  at 
his  sally. 

"You  go  get  you  another  guy,  sis,"  advised  one  of 
them.  "This  one's  been  copped  away  from  you;  going 
to  marry  another  dame." 

"Marry  another!     Who?"  said  Delia. 

"Miss  Joliet  for  about  thirty  years,  and  no  divorce 
goes.  He's  done  for,  your  guy,  sis;  we  got  the  goods 
on  him" 

"My  God!"  said  the  girl  foolishly.     "Poor  Freddy!" 

She  asked  to  see  him. 

"Nah,  you  can't  see  'im,"  said  another  officer.  "And 
what's  more,  you'd  better  chase  yourself  out  o'  here. 
You're  pretty  lucky  not  to  be  down  there  yourself." 

"He  ain't  nice  to  look  at,  either,"  said  one.  Whereat 
they  all  laughed. 

Delia  went  out,  walking  like  one  in  her  sleep,  her  wide- 
open  eyes  staring  straight  before  her,  seeing  nothing, 
comprehending  nothing,  paralyzed  with  an  unknown, 
unspeakable  fright.  What  did  they  mean?  What  had 
happened  to  Freddy?  What  might  happen  to  her?  The 
fear  and  dread  with  which  the  helpless  regard  society's 


Joey  the  Dreamer  283 

machinery  of  regulation,  the  police,  was  rooted  deep  in 
Delia's  heart  now.  She  had  touched  the  dark  shades  of 
a  great  horror  bred  in  her  from  the  days  of  the  first 
parental  admonition:  "Look  out;  here  comes  a  police- 
man." The  dread  of  the  Law !  To  Delia  the  Law  stood 
for  Punishment  —  only  Punishment.  Its  hand  was  the 
hand  of  doom.  And  it  had  fallen  on  Freddy;  and  the 
impression  on  Delia  was  that  of  having  sniffed  the  air 
of  the  dark,  dread  tomb  in  which  a  heart's  brother  is 
sepulchred.  But  Freddy  was  alive. 

That  was  the  bitterest  part  of  it  —  the  unhuman, 
supernatural  tang.  Death  held  no  terror  like  this.  He 
remained  in  the  world  of  the  living,  yet  he  was  not  of  it. 
And  their  separation  was  as  permanent,  as  effectual  as 
as  if  the  clouds  had  rattled  above  his  head. 

"He's  gone,"  ran  Delia's  thoughts.  "He's  gone." 
That,  and  nothing  more.  And  Hope,  that  blessed  saviour 
which  had  sprung  into  being  with  the  coming  of  their 
love,  and  their  planning,  and  their  opportunity,  was  dead. 
One  instant  the  murky  clouds  of  Fate  had  lifted;  the 
heavens  glimmered  bright  and  beautiful  beyond.  One 
instant;  then  the  night. 

Delia  stood  on  the  stone  step  of  the  station  house 
dazed,  half-killed.  A  cell  door  clanged  shut.  A  lock 
turned  groaningly.  Then,  silence.  Yes,  it  was  very 
like  a  tomb.  And  Freddy  was  in  there,  alive,  but  gone. 

"Come  on."  A  rough  voice  behind  her,  a  rough  hand 
slamming  the  door.  Delia  turned  around.  The  door 
was  black  and  tightly  shut. 

"Oh!"  said  Delia.     "Oh!    Poor  Freddy!" 


284  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Down  the  dark  steps,  into  the  dark,  hollow  street 
before  the  station,  still  in  the  unspeakable  horror-driven 
daze.  Her  steps  on  the  stones  rang  echoingly  in  the 
emptiness  of  the  place.  She  was  afraid  of  them.  They 
revealed  her  presence  to  those  —  the  terrible  figures  — 
who  kept  the  tomb.  She  felt  the  grasp  of  the  black  iron, 
the  gray  stone  upon  her.  She  hurried,  frantically  running 
away  from  the  place,  though  the  noise  of  her  steps  was 
terrifying.  The  smell  of  the  station  was  in  her  nostrils; 
the  threat  of  it  in  her  soul.  Overhead  a  blood-red  moon, 
thin  as  a  wafer,  looked  down  through  the  grime  at  the 
dark-doomed  district  like  an  evil  eye. 

"Oh!"  moaned  Delia.     "Oh,  poor  Freddy!" 

And  she  hurried  on. 

Through  dark,  hopeless  streets,  streets  of  factories, 
dead  after  nightfall,  gutted  of  lights  and  all  things  living, 
charnel-houses  of  industry,  lay  her  course.  There  were 
lights  at  the  corners,  sickly  pale  wisps  of  burning  gas 
struggling  behind  dirty  glass.  Between  them,  there  was 
darkness,  unrelieved  save  for  the  occasional  gleam  of  a 
watchman's  lantern.  She  came  to  the  railroad  yards, 
and  the  taste  of  soot  on  her  tongue  told  her  that  she  was 
panting,  open-mouthed.  A  freight  train  clanged,  the 
bells  rang  a  warning;  and  she  ran  across  the  tracks,  her 
hands  on  her  bosom. 

Her  hair  slipped  down  from  the  back  of  her  head. 
More  dark  streets.  Oh,  how  dark,  how  hopeless,  how 
damning  they  were!  It  seemed  that  the  Horror  had  laid 
its  hand  upon  them,  and  they  were  doomed.  And  how 
helpless  —  how  hopelessly  helpless  —  one  little  girl  was 


Joey  the  Dreamer  285 

against  them.  Though  she  had  played  in  these  same 
streets  at  night  in  the  short  playing  years  of  her  childhood, 
Delia,  now,  with  years  and  a  woman's  experience  behind 
her,  was  afraid.  Never  had  she  feared  them  before;  but 
never  before  had  she  felt  their  crushing  significance. 
The  lights  and  the  crowds  of  the  Avenue  in  the  distance. 
Delia  hurried  to  them  as  a  terrified  child  hurries  to  the 
shelter  of  a  mother's  arms.  Into  the  thoroughfare  she 
hurled  herself,  gulping  with  joy  as  the  rough  crowd 
jostled  her  in  its  motion.  Lights  in  her  eyes,  the  sound 
of  voices,  common  chattering  voices,  in  her  ears,  elbows 
in  her  sides.  Ah!  it  was  good,  good  to  be  saved!  For 
this  was  the  thought  in  the  fleeing  girl's  mind  as  she  lost 
herself  in  the  throng;  saved,  saved,  saved!  She  was  back 
in  the  world  again,  the  frivolous,  gabbling  world  where 
she  belonged,  where  all  living  people  belonged;  and  the 
tomb  —  ah !  the  tomb  couldn't  reach  her  here  in  the 
sea-like  souse  of  swarms  of  people  'neath  the  bright, 
shiny  lights.  She  was  safe.  But  Freddy,  Freddy,  was 
back  there.  Freddy  was  gone. 

Off  the  Avenue  in  Clay  Court,  Delia  recoiled.  Dark- 
ness here,  too ;  the  hand  of  doom.  She  rushed  in-doors 
and  lighted  the  gas  and  turned  it  on  to  the  limit.  She 
must  have  light.  She  would  fear  the  dark  for  the  rest  of 
her  days.  Then  she  sat  down. 

She  had  not  cried.  Her  eyes  were  dry.  But  there  was 
no  light  in  them,  and  no  life,  such  as  had  gleamed  in  them 
and  softened  them  with  the  coming  of  love.  There  was 
no  buoyancy  or  hope.  She  had  grown  old  suddenly,  old, 
crafty,  cunning,  and  careless. 


286  Joey  the  Dreamer 

She  looked  out  of  the  windows,  and  the  darkness  and 
misery  of  the  neighbourhood  smote  her  as  a  blow.  But 
far  to  the  west,  in  the  soot-filled  sky,  was  a  faint  spot  of 
a  light.  It  was  the  reflection  of  the  myriads  of  lights  in 
Electric  Park. 

Delia  pouted.  And  the  awakened  woman  once  more 
was  a  frivolous  girl;  "I  knew  it  was  too  good  to  be  true." 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Well,  back  to  the  Factory 
for  me  now,  I  s'pose." 

But  the  Factory  lay  back  there  in  those  awful  dark 
streets.  She  turned  to  the  glass  —  it  was  second  nature 
with  her.  And  she  saw  that  she  was  good  to  look  upon 
in  spite  of  horror  and  terror,  good  to  look  upon,  pleasing 
to  the  eyes  of  men. 

"The  Factory,  eh?"  she  breathed  musingly  as  she 
studied  herself.  She  turned  sideways  to  the  mirror,  she 
looked  over  her  shoulder  with  a  hand  on  her  hip. 

The  Factory?  The  picture  welled  up  before  her  like 
a  nightmare  —  the  dark  morning  arisings,  the  hurry  to 
work,  the  dark  shop,  the  dark  street  at  night,  and  the 
hopelessness,  the  absolute  hopelessness,  unto  the  end. 

And  then  she  thought  of  lights,  and  strong  perfumes, 
and  pretty  clothes,  and  plenty  of  food,  and  —  and 

Binger Binger  would  be  waiting.  Amidst  the 

lights.  And  Freddy  was  gone.  Poor,  poor  Freddy! 

"The  Factory,  eh?"  repeated  Delia,  softly.     "Nit!" 

Then  she  fluffed  her  front  puffs  and  put  onher  hat.  The 
battle  could  not  end  otherwise.  At  the  door  she  paused 
and  gazed  wistfully  once  around  the  dingy  little  room. 
Then  she  went  out.  And  this  is  the  end  of  our  Delia. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IT  WAS  on  Friday,  three  days  after  the  riot,  and 
Mag  was  thankful  she  was  feeling  stronger.  She 
had  been  able  to  rise  from  bed  this  morning  and 
take  some  food  from  the  table.  This  augured  but  one 
thing,  she  knew;  she  would  soon  be  well.  So  she  was 
quite  content  this  morning,  was  Old  Mag,  and  the  world 
seemed  good  and  easy  to  live  in.  She  marvelled  a  little 
at  the  new  feeling  of  release  from  pain  and  weakness  and 
worry  that  seemed  to  have  come  over  her;  but  then  she 
considered  her  feat  of  arising  alone  and  reaching  the 
table,  and  returning  to  bed  without  a  single  mishap, 
and  she  realized  that  this  was  nothing  more  or  less 
than  a  sign  of  her  improved  condition.  She  had  been 
depressed  and  worried  over  the  future  because  she  had 
been  ill;  now  she  was  growing  well  and  strong  and  the 
depression  had  fled  as  a  natural  consequence.  Old  Mag 
nodded  and  smiled  in  great  satisfaction  with  herself  and 
all  things.  She  lay  with  her  hands  folded  limply  over 
her  breast,  her  eyes  wide  open,  staring  out  before  her  at 
the  wall.  Just  the  smallest  little  ray  of  morning  sun- 
light had  managed  to  steal  its  way  in  through  her  window, 
and  it  drew  with  a  dashing  stroke  a  band  of  gold  across 
the  bare,  unwhitewashed  plaster.  The  sunbeam 
was  out  of  place  there,  but  like  those  wonderful  people 

287 


288  Joey  the  Dreamer 

who  make  themselves  at  home  and  radiate  familiarity 
under  all  conditions,  it  proceeded  to  grow  wider  and 
warmer  until  it  had  quite  mastered  the  dreariness  of  the 
room  with  its  golden  rays. 

The  sunbeam  stirred  Mag.  The  sun  and  she  were 
comparative  strangers.  It  had  had  but  little  part  in 
her  whole  existence.  Her  conception  of  Light  would 
have  been  gas  jet;  and  yet  this  morning  the  sun  had 
reached  her  and  touched  her  pain-racked  being.  It 
soothed  and  at  the  same  time  agitated  her.  It  was 
pleasant  to  lie  and  watch  the  beam,  and  Mag  indulged 
herself  in  a  broader  smile.  The  sun  also  in  its  subtle, 
mysterious  fashion  for  the  moment  gave  her  a  little  new 
strength,  and  with  its  insistent,  never-ending  domination 
over  all  things  living,  it  called  upon  that  little  strength 
to  use  and  exert  itself. 

"I  am  getting  better,"  thought  Old  Mag.  "I'll  be 
getting  up  pretty  soon." 

She  was  right;  she  would  be  getting  up  soon,  though 
not  for  the  reason  she  fancied. 

In  the  midst  of  Mag's  pleasant  reveries  there  came 
heavy  footsteps  in  the  hall,  a  hoarse  voice  asking  direc- 
tions, and  a  knock  on  her  door.  Old  Mag  had  no  need  to 
answer,  for  the  door  swung  open  immediately  after  the 
knock,  and  in  trod  a  short,  thick-necked  man  who  looked 
like  a  constable  and  introduced  himself  as  the  agent  of 
the  building.  He  did  not  explain  his  visit  at  first.  He 
came  in,  carefully  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  with 
trained  eye  he  methodically  appraised  the  value  of  each 
item  of  furniture  in  the  room  at  a  glance.  The  furniture 


Joey  the  Dreamer  289 

was  not  of  great  value.  The  agent  saw  it,  pursed  his 
lips,  and  after  a  last  glance  around  turned  his  attention 
to  the  woman  on  the  bed.  Her,  too,  he  appraised,  with 
practically  the  same  eyes  and  the  same  result  as  he  had 
judged  the  furniture. 

"It's  rent  day,"  said  he,  curtly. 

One  must  have  lived  in  Clay  Court  to  appreciate  the 
significance  of  this. 

The  rent  is  due.  The  agent  is  here  to  collect  it. 
Please  God,  we  may  have  the  amount,  for  the  streets  are 
cruel  to  sleep  in,  and  there  will  be  no  other  place  to  go. 
The  agent  is  not  a  Human  Being  on  rent  day;  he  is  Fate, 
blind,  inexorable,  an  ever-hanging  threat  over  the  heads 
of  the  folks  to  whom  rent  money  is  a  problem  never 
completely  solved.  He  knows  who  has  and  who  has  not 
the  money  when  he  enters,  does  the  agent;  the  lips  of  the 
unfortunate  tremble  when  they  see  him  come. 

Old  Mag  made  no  reply.  She  could  not  reply. 
She  could  not  utter  a  word.  All  her  life  the  rent 
agent  had  threatened  to  be  a  curse  to  her,  and  now 
the  curse  had  come  true.  For  Old  Mag  did  not  have 
the  rent. 

"It's  Friday,"  said  the  agent.  "Did  you  hear?"  He 
regarded  her  with  suspicious,  angry  eyes.  Mag  knew 
she  was  committing  a  grievous  sin  by  lying  there  sick, 
helpless,  and  without  money.  She  was  breaking  all  the 
established  laws  of  justice  and  civilization.  She  knew  it; 
it  was  all  in  the  agent's  expression. 

"Yessir,"  said  Mag  feebly. 

"Well?" 


290  Joey  the  Dreamer 

No  answer.  The  agent  glowered.  Old  Mag  turned 
her  eyes  away  in  shame. 

"It's  rent  day!"    The  agent  bellowed  ironically. 

"Is  it?"  said  Mag,  trying  to  smile. 

The  agent  sneered.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  world  of 
shrewd  accusation  in  his  pig  eyes. 

"Aw,  hell!"  said  he,  and  Mag  blushed. 

"You  better  be  finding  another  place  to  room,"  said 
the  agent  abruptly. 

"Why !" 

"Why?"  thundered  the  agent.  Why!  "Good  God! 
You  'spose  we  run  this  house  for  the  benefit  of  the  likes 
of  you?" 

"Course  not,"  said  Mag,  "but  — but " 

"But  nothing.  You  can't  pay,  can  you?  That's 
what  I'm  talking  about.  Hah?  Can  you  pay?  Come 
on;  cough  up  the  rhino.  Let  me  see  the  price  of  your 
rent  clinking  in  me  hand,  or  else  get  busy  and  get  ready  to 
be  sponging  some  place  else  by  the  time  I  have  somebody 
else  in  here  who  can  pay  their  way." 

"I  ain't  been  sponging,"  said  Mag. 

"Ain't  you?  Ain't  you?  What  d'you  call  it  then, 
would  I  dare  to  ask?  Been  living  here  on  somebody 
else's  coin,  ain't  you?  Somebody  else  been  paying  your 
room  rent,  ain't  they?  Somebody  else  been  feeding  you, 
ain't  they?  Some  woman,  wasn't  it?  Well,  that  looks 
mighty  like  sponging  to  me;  room  rent  and  meal  ticket 
from  somebody  else.  Anyhow,  that  stuff's  all  off  now. 
She  won't  pay  no  more  room  rent  for  you  around  here. 
She " 


Joey  the  Dreamer  291 

Something  sinister  in  his  tone  impelled  Mag  to  gasp 
out:  "Something's  happened ?" 

"Yer  friends  put  her  in  the  hospital,"  sneered  the 
agent.  "Broke  two  ribs  in  her  chest.  She'll  prob'bly 
croak.  She's  through  here.  And  so're  you,  and  you'd 
better  get  ready  to  make  a  move  and  make  it  be  quick." 

Old  Mag  had  fallen  back  on  the  pillows  aghast  at  the 
news  as  it  was  told  to  her.  She  stared  at  the  agent  as  if 
she  did  not  understand.  Miss  Ruth  hurt?  That  wasn't 
possible.  Who  would  hurt  her? 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said?"  growled  the  man, 
irritated  by  the  unblinking  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Mag.     "Yes,  I'll  get  out." 

"Right  away,  too." 

"All  right,"  said  Mag.  "I'll  go  to-day."  She  lay 
still  for  a  long  time  after  he  had  gone.  But  for  the  wide 
open  eyes  one  would  have  said  she  slept,  so  still  was  she. 
Miss  Ruth  was  gone  —  In  the  hospital  —  And  might 
die  —  And  she  must  get  out. 

"How  handy  it  comes  in,"  said  Mag,  thankfully, 
"that  I'm  feeling  stronger!" 

She  rose,  and  though  she  found  that  she  was  not  so 
strong  on  her  feet  as  in  the  bed,  and  that  the  wall,  the 
chair,  the  table  were  convenient  supports  to  catch  at  and 
save  herself  from  falling,  she  managed  to  dress  with  con- 
siderable care.  It  was  a  slow  process,  but  in  the  end 
she  was  ready  to  go.  In  the  hall  she  met  the  woman 
next  door. 

"Do  you  know  where  they  took  Miss  Ruth?"  asked 
Mag. 


292  Joey  the  Dreamer 

"To  Mercy  Hospital,"  said  the  woman,  "But  you 
ain't  going  there,  are  you'" 

"Sure,"  said  Margaret.     "Can't  you  see  I'm  all  right." 

The  sun  blinded  her  in  the  street  and  the  heat  haze 
made  her  reel. 

"Mercy  Hospital,"  she  repeated.     "That's  south." 

The  blocks  were  interminably  long,  and  the  number  of 
them  was  without  end.  At  times  she  sat  down  in  the 
shade  of  hallways  to  rest.  Once  she  was  ordered  out 
with  an  oath.  At  another  time  a  child  called:  "Ma! 
Ma!  Her's  a  beggar  woman!"  Mag  got  up  hurriedly 
and  went  on. 

She  lost  her  bearings  at  this  time  and  a  boy  whom  she 
asked  for  directions,  unwittingly  sent  her  six  squares  out 
of  her  way.  At  last  she  reached  the  doors  of  the  hospital 
and  entered.  Trembling  she  spoke  Ruth's  name,  and 
fearfully  she  awaited  the  reply. 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know  the  name,"  said  the  old,  spectacled 
registry  clerk,  puckering  his  brows.  "She  was  here,  she 
was  here,  but 

Mag's  heart  was  in  her  throat.     "She  ain't  dead?" 

"No,  no;  she  ain't  dead;  she  ain't  dead,"  said  the  clerk. 
"But  she  isn't  here  any  more.  They  took  her  away  —  to 
her  friends,  I  understand.  Oh!  Yes,  yes;  I  remember, 
I  remember,  now;  there  was  a  piece  in  the  paper  about  it, 
a  big  piece.  They  took  her  home,  to  her  home.  I 
remember  it  all  now.  They  took  her  home.  Way  up 
in  that  swell  suburb  —  on  the  north  shore,  it  is." 

"Far  from  here?" 

"Far?     Why,  yes;  yes.   You  take  a  car,  and  go  down- 


Joey  the  Dreamer  293 

town.  Then  you  take  a  train.  Yes,  it's  pretty  far,  all 
right.  But  that's  where  it  is.  Out  in  that  north  shore 
suburb ! 

Old  Mag  went  out  without  ano  her  word.  She  didn't 
take  a  car  down  town;  she  started  to  walk.  It  was  a 
hot  day. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  toward  evening,  Mag  sat  down 
on  the  clean  steps  of  a  great  brown-stone  house  out  on 
the  Drive.  A  lady,  a  wonderful,  beautiful  lady,  beauti- 
fully dressed,  well-fed,  came  out  and  looked  down  at 
her  kindly. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  the  wonderful  lady. 

Mag  smiled  and  fumbled  aimlessly  with  her  fingers. 

" I  donno,"  she  said.  " I  forget,  y'see  — No,  I  forget  — 
It  was  too  far,  too  far.  See?" 

Tears  stood  in  the  wonderful  lady's  beautiful  brown 
eyes,  soft,  tender  tears  of  compassion  and  pity. 

"Poor  thing!"  she  whispered  to  the  maid  who  stood  at 
her  side. 

"What  shall  I  do,  Mis'  Clews?"  asked  the  maid. 

"Poor,  poor  thing!"  repeated  Mrs.  Dicky  Clews. 
"Call  an  officer,  Hulda.  The  poor  woman  has  lost  her 
reason." 

The  wonderful  lady  went  back  into  the  great  brown- 
stone  house.  Old  Mag  sat  on  the  clean  steps,  and  smiled 
and  smiled  and  fumbled  aimlessly  with  her  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

WITNESS  the  working  of  Power. 
Dicky  Clews  grew  almost   perturbed  when 
some  of  the  foregoing  events  became  known  to 
him.     The  papers  got  hold  of  the  story  of  Old  Mag  and 
the  Clews'  steps,  and  though  they  naturally  never  men- 
tioned Dicky's  name,  Dicky  heard  the  truth  and  came  ask- 
ing if  such  things  were  true.    Then  he  got  the  whole  story. 

"My  word!"  said  he.  "We  must  do  something. 
You  say  this  Freddy  lad  is  an  all  right  man?" 

"One  of  the  kind  that  brightens  the  world,  Dicky;  a 
man  and  brother." 

"And  I  believe  you  said,  a  good  fellow.  Surely  got 
to  do  something.  Good  gad !  Girl  gone  to  hell,  I  suppose, 
without  him.  And  a  dirty  deal,  too,  you  say,  from 
the  police.  Well,  don't  care  if  it  isn't;  it's  got  to  be 
straightened  out.  I'll  see  somebody." 

He  did.  He  went  to  his  man  of  business,  and  they 
sent  a  message  to  Inspector  Donahey.  The  inspector 
came,  in  plain  clothes  and  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"It  can't  be  done,  sir,"  said  he,  when  Dicky  named  his 
wishes.  "We  got  to  make  examples  of  these  fellows 
after  such  things.  Wouldn't  be  any  respect  for  the  de- 
partment if  we  didn't.  They  fought  the  police." 

"Sacrilege!"  said  Dicky.     "See  your  point  of  view, 

294 


Joey  the  Dreamer  295 

however,  inspector;  got  to  keep  fear  instilled,  and  all 
that.  This  is  an  exception,  however,  our  exception. 
We  want  him  turned  loose." 

The  inspector  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  the  air  of 
a  faithful  servant  whose  superiors  interfere  with  the 
proper  performance  of  his  duties. 

"Well,  if  that's  the  case,  all  right,"  said  he.  "But  I 
tell  you,  gentlemen,  you're  making  a  mistake.  There's 
only  one  way  to  keep  these  people  where  they  belong, 
and  that's  to  keep  them  damn  good  and  scared." 

"Quite  right,  inspector,  quite  right,"  said  Dicky's 
man  of  business.  He  was  not  at  all  in  sympathy  with 
his  client's  determined  conduct. 

"The  idea  has  come  to  me  lately,"  said  Dicky 
languidly,  "  that  perhaps  we  haven't  quite  got  the  — 
what  d'you  call  it?  —  the  right  to  say  where  these  people 
belong.  Just  my  idea,  you  know.  Anyhow,  I  don't 
believe  they're  going  to  stand  for  this  —  what  d'you  call 
it,  inspector?  —  keep-them-scared  policy  much  longer. 
Just  another  idea  of  mine,  of  course;  but  as  this  is  my 
own  mistake,  if  it  is  one,  and  as  I'm  paying  the  chit  —  I 
guess  we'll  have  to  put  it  through,  what?" 

So  the  wires  were  pulled,  and  the  machinery  of  the 
Law  was  made  to  slip  a  cog,  and  Freddy  went  free  of 
jail,  with  a  face  like  stone  and  a  fringe  of  gray  around 
the  edge  of  his  red  hair;  but  the  curse  that  those  days  had 
laid  up  on  him  will  not  leave  him  entirely  as  long  as  he 
lives.  And  Inspector  Donahey  made  another  payment 
on  the  glazed  brick  apartment  building  he  was  buying 
on  the  South  Side. 


296  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Dicky  was  Freddy's  sworn  friend  after  their  first 
meeting. 

"If  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  that  boy,"  said  he; 
but  there  was  nothing  he  could  do  but  try  to  find  Delia, 
and  there  even  Dicky's  resources  failed.  Money  did  much, 
of  course.  It  caused  the  nether  worlds  of  several  proud 
American  cities  to  be  inventoried  to  the  last  lost  soul, 
caused  the  gilded  downtown  places  where  the  painted 
pack  hunts,  by  night,  to  be  watched  for  weeks,  turned 
every  police  officer  in  our  city  into  a  searcher  for  Delia; 
and  it  was  all  in  vain.  It  also  ran  the  oily  J.  Q.  A. 
Binger  into  the  deep  hole  reserved  for  promoters  black- 
listed among  financiers,  but  Binger  could  throw  no  light 
on  Delia,  for  he  had  lost  her  himself. 

"Chorus  girl  —  some  road  company,"  said  Dicky 
out  of  the  depths  of  his  knowledge.  "Don't  worry,  old 
man.  Takes  'em  about  a  year  to  get  sick  of  that.  Then 
if  she's  worth  what  you  think  she  is  she'll  remember 
you.  Know  what  you're  worth,  too.  Cheer  up." 

"I  was  born  that  way,"  said  Freddy,  trying  to  grin, 
"but  something's  put  a  crimp  in  me." 

Later  he  said  thoughtfully:  "It's  the  girls  that  this 
world  is  hard  with." 

The  ease  with  which  Power  had  moved  things  had 
opened  my  eyes.  Dicky  had  accomplished  with  ease 
what  our  darkest  struggles  must  have  failed  in.  Here 
was  where  the  help  must  come  from;  the  Controlling 
Power  must  begin  by  regulating  the  Machine. 

"Dicky!"  I  cried.  "You  are  the  one  who  must  do 
it.  You  can  do  it.  You  must  change  things." 


Joey  the  Dreamer  297 

But  Dicky,  too,  had  seen  considerable  light.  Given 
ten  years  younger  and,  consequently,  less  deeply  rooted 
respect  for  family,  traditions,  and  his  own  sort's  opinion, 
and  there  is  no  telling  what  Dicky  might  have  done. 
But  even  as  it  was  the  summer  had  not  been  without 
effect. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  a  seriousness  that  no  one  could 
have  suspected  him  of,  "it  isn't  us  who  will  do  it;  we're  too 
stale.  It's  going  to  be  done,  of  course,  because  you  can 
feel  it  in  the  air,  you  know.  A  sort  of  —  what  d'you  call 
it?  —  force.  That's  what's  going  to  do  the  trick.  We're 
going  to  help  naturally,  we  —  what  d'you  call  us?  — 
idle  exploiters,  and  so  forth.  We're  going  to  help 
because  we're  getting  dissatisfied,  too.  It's  working  above 
and  below  —  that  force,  you  know.  Some  of  the  fellows, 
the  young  'uns,  actually  ask  about  kid  labour  and  that 
sort  of  thing  before  putting  their  money  behind  a  thing. 
They  do,  for  a  fact.  Mysterious,  but  true.  I  know  one 
who  did." 

"One?" 

"One.  As  for  me,  I'm  going  to  draw  out  of  that 
damn  Consolidated  thing  —  as  soon  as  I  can  without 
losing  too  much,  you  know." 

Hope  for  Dicky! 

"Say,  but  that  was  a  terr'ble  old  speech,  Miss  Arthur 
let  go  at  us,  terr'ble,"  he  continued.  "Hope  they  didn't 
hurt  her  bad?" 

"They  didn't  hurt  her,  Dicky." 

"Come  again?" 

"'They'  is  the  wrong  word.     We  did  it.     All  of  us; 


298  Joey  the  Dreamer 

you  and  I  —  everybody  —  when  we  sat  still  and  per- 
mitted Clay  Court  to  grow  up  next  door  to  us  without 
opening  an  eye  to  see  what  it  was  or  what  it  was  doing 
to  its  people.  A  bad  neighbour  makes  your  own 
nest  uncomfortable;  and  we're  all  neighbours,  if  we'll 
only  see  it.  That's  selfish  and  practical,  so  you  can 
understand." 

Dicky  thought  it  over  for  some  time. 

"Yes,"  he  drawled,  "I  guess  it's  pretty  late  in  the  day 
to  get  away  with  Cain's  argument.  Old  Cain  was 
pretty  much  narrow-minded,  anyhow.  Short  on  —  what 
d'you  call  it?  —  experience  with  his  fellow  men.  But, 
I  say,  old  man,"  he  continued  more  briskly,  "you  haven't 
answered  my  question  about  Miss  Arthur,  have  you?" 

"She  will  get  well,"  I  said. 

Dicky  looked  up  at  the  words.  He  regarded  me  with 
new  interest.  There  were  few  things  the  indolent  Dicky 
couldn't  see  when  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"Hah!  I  see  that  somebody  had  some  luck  over  there, 
after  all,"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"Congratulations,"  said  Dicky. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THIS  is  not  my  story.  It  is  not  Ruth's  story,  nor 
is  it  ours  together.  Therefore  I  shall  not  tell 
of  the  black  days  that  followed  the  riot  for  us, 
of  the  fever  that  Ruth's  injury  plunged  her  into,  of  the 
weary  days  and  nights  when  she  lay  on  the  border-land 
of  eternity,  when  it  seemed  that  I  had  won  her  only  to 
lose  her,  and  all  the  world  was  a  place  of  bitterness  and 
woe.  I  shall  not  tell  of  these  things,  I  repeat,  nor  of 
that  joyous  morn  when  Ruth  opened  her  eyes  quietly, 
safe  and  sound  in  the  land  of  living  at  last,  smiled,  and 
raised  up  a  feeble  arm  to  clasp  about  my  neck. 

I  shall  tell,  however,  of  the  last  visit  we  paid  to  Clay 
Court  one  clear  Sunday  afternoon  when  autumn,  like  a 
cooling  hand  was  beginning  to  cool  the  city's  brow, 
fevered  by  the  hot,  mad  summer. 

It  was  Ruth's  first  day  out.  She  was  very  weak,  but 
the  day  was  kind  to  her.  We  drove  slowly.  In  the  park 
the  dead  leaves  were  dotting  the  dying  grass.  They  fell 
at  the  slightest  breeze;  they  lay  unmoved  on  the  still 
waters  of  the  lagoons.  Along  the  boulevard  the  gardeners 
had  covered  precious  roots  and  shrubs  with  many  coat- 
ings of  straw;  and  the  reddened  cheeks  and  quick  steps 
of  the  pedestrians  told  that  autumn's  hearty  influence 
had  begun. 

299 


300  Joey  the  Dreamer 

But  this  exquisite  blending  of  two  seasons  made  little 
difference  in  Clay  Court.  The  changing  seasons  count 
for  little  here,  save  that  one  may  be  worse  than  another. 
The  whisperings  of  spring  are  hailed  merely  as  the  fore- 
runners of  the  tormenting  hot  weather;  the  nuances  of 
fall  predict  only  the  murderous  sufferings  of  cold  weather. 
The  trouble  is  that  no  season  holds  forth  to  Clay  Court 
the  offering  of  new  hopes  and  promises  that  elsewhere 
cause  their  coming  to  be  hailed  with  joy.  One  is  about 
the  same  as  another,  though  winter,  naturally,  is  worst. 
Yet  even  Clay  Court  could  not  make  entirely  unlovely 
such  a  perfect  Sunday  afternoon  in  autumn  as  the  day 
when  Ruth  and  I  came  back  to  the  Tenement,  to  the 
little  white  room  that  had  been  hers  on  the  third  floor, 
and  where  she  had  not  been  since  that  Tuesday  in 
August.  But  the  room  was  white  no  longer. 

Out  of  doors  the  world  was  at  peace  with  itself  and  with 
the  universe,  but  the  Tenement  was  as  noisy,  as  brawling, 
as  much  like  an  uneasy  kettle  as  ever.  We  sat  side  by 
side  on  two  of  Ruth's  chairs  —  grown  grimy  since  her 
departure  —  and  above  and  below,  and  all  around,  raged 
the  tumult  which  here  always  was  present.  Children 
bawled  and  babbled,  harsh- voiced  mothers,  weary  mothers, 
shouted  fretful  objurgations;  and  ever  and  anon  came 
bull-like  male  roars,  alternated  with  shrill,  adolescent 
laughter.  It  was  the  same  Tenement,  the  same  noise, 
all  the  same. 

"Ah,  jees !  Coming  home  with  a  jag  and  not  a  cent  in 
clothes,  an'  me  an'  the  kids  starving!"} 

Ruth  asked  for  the  Bruggers.     She  wished  to  make 


Joey  the  Dreamer  301 

our  guardianship  of  Joey  secure.  Joey,  at  least,  was 
saved. 

"Trun  out.  Wouldn't  pay  no  rent.  They  don't 
live  together  no  more,  but  I  don't  know  where  she's  at." 

"Mrs.  Perkins?" 

"They  say  she  went  to  his  folks,  and  they  couldn't 
help  her,  and  she  came  back  and  worked  in  the  Factory 
for  awhile,  till  she  got  sick.  No;  nobody  knows  where 
she's  at  now.  Was  these  folks  friends  of  yours,  lady?" 

New  faces,  new  names,  new  families,  yet  all  the  same, 
all  as  it  had  been  since  the  Tenement  was  built,  all  as  it 
will  be  as  long  as  the  building  endures.  The  people 
were  different,  practically  all  of  them,  for  moving  is 
common  here,  but  on  their  faces,  in  their  bodies,  through- 
out their  whole  beings  was  told  the  same  story  as  had 
gone  before.  To  the  empty  white  face  of  the  newest 
baby  the  strangers  duplicated  the  Tenement's  old 
inhabitants.  The  great  battle  had  been  fought,  the 
debris  had  been  cleared  away;  and  it  was  all  as  it  had  been 
before,'as  if  the  strife  had  not  been.  One,  two,  five  years 
more  and  it  might  be  done  over  again;  the  elements  all 
were  there  again  for  the  brewing  of  a  fresh  storm. 

Ruth  sank  together  and  grew  small  and  wan  as  she 
heard  and  saw.  She  was  looking  far  away,  far  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  room,  and  presently  she  began  to  speak: 

"So  this  is  the  way  of  it.  The  war  goes  on.  Man 
fights,  and  the  stronger  slays  the  weaker  brother.  All 
come  into  the  fight,  the  large  and  the  small,  the  weak  and 
powerful,  the  helpless  and  disinterested,  for  that  is  the 
way  of  the  Scheme  —  of  life  —  here  —  to-day.  It 


302  Joey  the  Dreamer 

couldn't  be  otherwise  while  the  law  of  fang  and  claw  pre- 
vails. Oh,  blind,  blind  man,  will  you  never  see? 

"Who  was  in  the  wrong?  Both.  The  Company 
first;  Rinehart  afterward.  And  so  foolishly,  ignorantly 
wrong." 

She  drew  her  hands  before  her  and  folded  them 
abstractedly  in  her  lap.  She  seemed  as  in  a  dream 
now,  and,  her  words  came  brokenly  and  in  little  more 
than  a  whisper. 

"And  God  said:  'Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was 
light;'  but  not  for  such  places  as  these.  No;  we  have 
taken  it  all  for  ourselves  up  there  in  the  bright  parts  of 
the  world;  and  none  of  us  see  how  we  stand  between  these 
folks  and  the  sun,  not  one  of  us  stops  to  think  of  getting 
along  with  a  little  less  light,  of  letting  a  tiny  ray  filter 
down  here.  Yet  God  surely  meant  His  light  for  these, 
too.  And  it  would  take  so  little  to  bring  some  of  it  here, 
and  the  results  would  be  wonderful  beyond  compare! 

"But  now  there  is  darkness.  Delia  is  lost  in  it.  It 
is  an  accident  that  Joey  is  saved,  and  Freddy.  And 
they  are  here  by  scores  and  hundreds.  Freddy  was 
standing  near  the  door  as  we  came  in;  Delia  came  out  of 
the  hall  and  Joey,  looked  down  at  us  from  an  upper 
window.  They  are  all  here,  to  grow  up  here  and  to 
become  the  sport  of  the  black  Fate  we  make  for  them  by 
monopolizing  the  light.  Whenever  the  time  is  ripe,  when 
the  occasion  comes,  Fate  will  play  with  them  just  as 
it  played  with  our  friends,  in  its  strangely  unfair  way. 
Helpless  pawns  in  a  game  in  which  they  have  no  share, 
no  chance  to  win.  And  yet  in  each  of  them  is  the  divine 


Joey  the  Dreamer  303 

soul  of  a  brother  or  sister  which  must  be  killed  before 
the  slum's  victory  is  quite  complete.  But  slain  it  is; 
we  have  seen  now  how  it  must  be  slain  with  things  as 
they  are;  and  it  will  continue  —  How  can  it  continue 
after  the  world  knows?" 

Her  voice  died  away,  and  her  last  words  were  something 
like  a  sob  as  she  reached  for  my  hand  and  gripped  it, 
seeking  the  touch  of  a  brother  being  who  understood.  So 
we  sat,  hand  in  hand  and  silent,  while  the  picture  she 
had  painted  hung  before  our  eyes,  and  the  life  that  they 
picture  epitomized  voiced  itself  around  us.  The  after- 
noon drew  on  toward  evening,  and  the  sun,  soon  shut  out 
by  the  buildings  in  the  west,  quitted  the  room,  and  the 
short,  gloomy  twilight  began  to  come  on.  And  even  as 
the  day  was  subdued,  so  the  Tenement  grew  more  quiet, 
and  for  a  moment  it  was  still.  Then  a  child  cried 
piteously  across  the  hall,  and  a  tin  rattled  upon  the  stairs. 

"Shall  we  go  home?"  She  spoke  to  me,  but  still  her 
eyes  were  toward  the  wall  and  far  away. 

"Do  you  want  to  stay?" 

She  waited  awhile  before  speaking,  and  again  her 
voice  was  the  voice  of  a  dreamer  seeking  his  way  out  of 
a  troublesome  maze. 

"  Can  one  do  any  good  by  remaining?  Is  it  a  work  that 
can  be  done,  and  is  weak  human  flesh  fitted  for  it?  It 
is  so  vast,  so  far  removed  from  We  as  we  live  it  to-day, 
so  far  from  man  it  seems  —  because  he  is  so  far  from 
God.  But  it  cannot  be  like  this  always.  It  cannot  be. 
Some  day  —  oh,  if  one  only  dared  to  hope!  —  But  it  is 
hard  to  hope  after  one  has  seen." 


304  Joey  the  Dreamer 

She  roused  herself  after  this,  as  if  the  sound  of  her 
words  had  struck  home  and  told  her  what  she  was  saying. 
She  cast  off  the  momentary  temptation  to  weakness. 

"What  am  I  saying?  We  may  hope,  of  course. 
We  must.  It  is  sin  not  to;  and  hope  —  yes,  hope  is 
before  us  now  as  it  never  was  before.  The  sign  is  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  and  within  man's  heart.  The  spirit 
of  goodness  has  sowed  its  seed,  and  the  crop  is  growing, 
growing  to  fruition.  It  is  only  in  the  hearts  of  a  few 
that  we  can  see  it,  only  a  few.  But  they  are  the  advance 
guard,  the  forerunners  that  tell  us  the  race  is  impregnated 
with  God.  These  few  are  the  signs  that  are  given  us 
that  we  may  hope.  They  are  far  in  advance,  but  the 
rest  will  follow.  Their  eyes  are  clearer,  their  hearts 
cleaner,  their  souls  less  ruled  by  finite  ambitions,  and 
they  are  spreading  the  true  light  among  their  kind. 
They  are  few  in  number.  They  are  a  handful  in  the 
midst  of  unaccountable  multitudes  of  multitudes,  and  the 
multitudes  rush  on  without  heeding  what  they  say.  But 
Jesus  Christ  at  first  was  only  one  obscure  individual  and 
his  followers  a  handful  of  discredited  cranks,  forgotten 
and  overlooked  by  His  slayers.  The  world  has  strayed 
far  from  Him  after  it  found  Him;  but  a  few,  a  precious 
handful,  have  seen  how  we  have  strayed  and  are  striv- 
ing to  point  the  way  back.  And  His  spirit  will  be  with 
them,  will  be  with  this  few.  And  some  will  write,  and 
the  world  will  laugh  at  them,  if  it  notices  them  at  all; 
and  others  will  plead  with  the  spoken  word,  and  the 
police  will  lock  them  up.  But  others  will  come  forward 
and  go  on.  The  flame  will  continue  to  burn.  You  can 


Joey  the  Dreamer  305 

no  more  stop  it  than  they  could  kill  Christ's  spirit  by 
destroying  the  mortal  flesh.  Hope 

She  leaned  forward  suddenly,  a  new,  eager  light  in  her 
eyes,  as  if  the  vision  had  spoken  and  the  dream  was 
clear. 

"Why,"  she  continued  in  a  voice  so  low  that  it  seemed 
awed,  **  it  is  the  day  of  hope  and  of  promise.  Christ's 
spirit  is  coming  back  to  earth  again,  and  manifesting 
itself  in  the  deeds  of  a  few  men.  Heaven  grant  that 
man's  eyes  are  not  too  blinded  by  the  things  of  his  day 
to  see  Him  when  He  comes." 

She  stopped  speaking  in  that  abrupt,  final  way  that 
told  when  her  speech  was  at  an  end.  Still  we  sat  silent, 
and  the  room  grew  darker,  but  now  Ruth  seemed 
to  smile. 

In  the  rear  rooms  they  were  lighting  the  lamps,  and 
the  windows  began  to  close  against  the  chill  evening. 

"Why,"  murmured  Ruth,  "will  not  man  begin  this 
work  now?" 

I  made  no  answer. 

"John,"  she  said  after  awhile,  "  what  is  wisdom?" 

"Perhaps  nothing  more  than  the  faith  and  patience 
to  wait?" 

"Ah!"  she  sat  up  and  smiled,  and  now  she  was  radiant. 

"Where  did  you  learn  that,  John?" 

"Here,  I  suppose"  I  said,  and  she  nodded  that  she 
understood. 

Suddenly  a  little  girl  laughed  merrily  out  in  the  hall, 
and  her  laughter,  as  natural,  as  care-free,  as  hopeful  as 
the  trilling  of  a  bird,  rang  through  the  building. 


306  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Ruth  rose.  She  leaned  on  my  arm.  The  patience 
was  back  in  her  eyes. 

"Let  us  go  home  now,"  she  said,  "we  have  heard  the 
coming  generation  laugh." 

And  with  this,  reader,  we  bid  farewell  to  Clay  Court. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

JOEY  sat  in  the  grass  before  the  farm  house,  and 
stared  at  the  Grown  Up  Pup. 
It  was  his  tenth  day  on  the  farm,  and  he  was  the 
first  person  on  record  to  look  twice  at  the  Pup  without 
laughing.  The  Pup  was  a  black  and  white  hound,  four 
years  old,  two  feet  long,  half  a  foot  high,  and  with  black- 
brown  ears  that  swept  the  ground.  He  had  never  got 
over  being  a  Pup.  His  presumed  function  in  life,  as 
testified  by  his  pedigree,  was  to  hunt  rabbits.  In  reality 
he  lived  only  to  love  and  make  love  to  everything  that 
crossed  his  path,  from  chicks  just  out  of  the  incubator 
to  tired,  surly  hired  men. 

The  Pup  took  charge  of  Joey,  upon  his  arrival,  just  as 
he  did  of  every  visitor  to  the  farm.  When  the  driver 
lifted  the  little  fellow  out  of  the  carriage  the  Pup  came 
waddling  forward  on  his  short,  crooked  legs  with  the 
grave  geniality  becoming  to  me  upon  whom  devolved  the 
duty  of  offering  guests  a  sincere  welcome.  His  manner 
on  these  occasions  always  suited  the  character  of  the  new 
arrival.  To  hearty  souls,  no  matter  of  what  age,  sex,  or 
standing,  the  Pup  came  forward  with  gleeful  barks  and 
playfulness.  To  Joey  he  came  slowly,  and,  touching  his 
nose  to  the  boy's  hand,  looked  wistfully  up  to  catch 
his  eye. 

307 


308  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Joey  started  and  drew  back  his  hand. 

"  'S  he  a  biter?"  he  demanded. 

The  driver  stopped  midway  in  the  process  of  loosening 
a  trace. 

"Hah?"  he  said,  dropping  the  trace  in  amazement. 
"Bite?  Him?  Him?"  He  laughed  hired-man  fashion, 
with  a  stamping  of  feet.  "Why,  boy,  if  that  Pup  heerd 
you  say  that  he'd  go  off  some  place  and  cry  hisself  plum  t' 
death.  Bite?  Why,  he  won't  even  bite  flies." 

Joey  was  a  bewildered  child,  but  he  could  not  let 
this  pass. 

"You're  a  kidder,  ain't  you?"  he  said  dryly. 

The  Pup's  mild  eyes  grew  soft  with  pain  and  surprise 
at  the  rejection  of  his  advances.  When  the  driver  led 
Joey  up  to  the  house  the  dog  followed  slowly  in  the  boy's 
footsteps.  He  was  a  puzzled  Pup.  His  heart  had  gone 
out  to  Joey  on  first  sight;  why  didn't  this  boy  do  like 
other  boys?  Pull  his  tail,  for  instance?  Something  was 
Wrong.  This  boy  was  different  from  any  boy  the  Pup 
ever  had  seen,  sniffed,  felt,  or  heard.  When  the  Pup 
playfully  gnawed  at  his  heels  the  boy  jumped  and  cried 
out.  The  Pup  dropped  back.  He  was  puzzled. 

A  little  later  when  Joey  came  out  to  sit  in  a  big  chair 
on  the  old  veranda  the  Pup  was  waiting  with  new 
advances.  No  use  trying  to  win  this  boy  as  he  did  others. 
The  Pup  trotted  sedately  up  to  Joey,  looked  him  full 
in  the  eyes  for  many  seconds,  then  laid  his  head  on 
the  little  knees  and  stood  there  expectantly,  hopefully, 
still  looking  up. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  the  Pup's  eyes.     "Why 


Joey  the  Dreamer  309 

aren't  we  chasing  each  other  around  the  yard?" 
But  Joey  did  not  understand.  The  natural  brother- 
hood of  boys  and  dogs  was  something  beyond  his  ken. 
He  drew  his  knee  away  and  shrank  back  in  the  chair. 
For  a  few  seconds  the  Pup  remained  standing  there,  an 
expression  in  his  eyes  that  would  have  won  him  a  pat 
from  anybody  but  —  Joey.  Then  his  head  drooped. 
Lower  and  lower  it  fell  until  the  long  ears  flopped  on  the 
floor.  The  Pup  turned  and  walked  slowly  and  sadly 
to  the  end  of  the  veranda  and  sat  down.  He  was  a 
lost  Pup;  the  world  suddenly  had  gone  askew. 

In  those  first  days  Joey  was  in  the  dazed  condition 
that  is  to  be  expected  of  a  child  undergoing  transition 
from  one  world  to  another.  Things  were  not  real  to 
him.  He  was  skeptical;  he  didn't  believe  that  things 
were  as  his  eyes  saw  them.  Somewhere  there  was'  a 
catch;  some  day  it  would  be  demonstrated;  then  all  these 
things  around  him  would  vanish.  For  they  were  not, 
they  could  not  be  real.  If  they  were  real,  then  he  had  no 
business  to  be  among  them.  They  were  not  part  of  his 
world.  This  new  home  of  his  was  part  of  a  strange 
universe,  a  strange  earth  under  his  feet,  strange  sky 
above  his  head,  strange  creatures  all  around  him,  and  a 
strange,  a  very  strange,  system  of  living  obtaining 
with  all.  Well,  it  was  all  right,  because  his  friends 
were  the  kind  that  wouldn't  play  tricks  on  him,  but 
he  would  wait  awhile  before  he  decided  whether  he  was 
awake  or  dreaming. 

"What  have  I  got  to  do? "  he  asked  the  hired  man. 

"Do?" 


310 

"Yes.  You  can't  con  me  that  I  don't  have  to  do 
something." 

"Why?" 

"  'Cause  you  can't.  What  kind  of  a  game  is  this  — 
where  yuh  pretend  I  don't  have  to  do  anything?  Don't 
you  s'pose  I  know  there  ain't  no  such  game  going?" 

The  hired  man  didn't  quite  understand,  either,  but 
he  said : 

"Your  job  is  to  laugh  and  grow  fat." 

Joey  gave  him  a  bored  look. 

"You  fancy  kidders  make  my  head  ache,"  said  he. 

He  could  not  understand,  that  was  the  sum  of  it  all. 
His  faculties  were  incapable  of  comprehending  the 
scheme  of  life  as  pursued  in  the  country.  It  was  hard 
to  convince  him  that  it  was  proper  to  stay  out  of  doors 
all  day  long.  He  had  never  heard  of  people  living  that 
way.  He  was  more  at  home  in-doors,  naturally.  There 
were  at  least  walls  there,  and  doors,  and  floors  and  ceil- 
ings to  shut  one  in  as  in  a  little  box,  with  all  God's  world 
of  sky  and  wind,  and  hills  and  trees  shut  out;  and  this 
was  how  he  was  comfortable.  He  had  been  shut  in  all 
his  life,  and  that  seemed  the  only  reasonable  way 
of  living  to  him. 

Time  after  time  he  was  taken  out  and  introduced  to 
the  young  chickens. 

"Here's  a  job  for  you,  Joey;  take  this  pan  of  corn  and 
throw  it  around  to  those  chicks." 

"Yessir." 

He  would  distribute  the  corn  as  he  had  seen  others 
do  it,  and  he  would  do  it  as  quickly  as  he  could.  Left 


Joey  the  Dreamer  311 

alone  for  a  moment,  he  would  cast  a  questioning  glance 
around,  then  he  would  wander  wanly  toward  the  house, 
enter  noiselessly  and  sit  down  in  some  lonely  corner,  a 
crumpled  little  figure  more  dwarf  than  child.  The  Pup 
followed  him  wistfully,  step  by  step,  out  of  doors;  he  was 
wearing  the  deepest  of  dog  mourning,  was  the  Pup, 
though  he  couldn't  understand  why  it  should  be  so. 

It  was  in  the  still,  clean  Indian  summer  nights,  when 
the  bark  of  a  dog  on  a  neighbouring  farm  filled  the  whole 
starlit  world  with  sound,  and  the  farm  house  and  its 
environs  lay  as  quiet  as  the  moonlight  that  bathed  it, 
that  Joey  suffered  most.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  sleep. 
He  was  afraid.  Senses  accustomed  to  the  muddled 
night  life  of  the  Tenement  could  not  rest  at  ease  in  a 
room  where  there  was  nothing  but  peace,  and  comfort, 
and  fresh  air.  As  the  system  of  the  drug  victim  craves 
the  poision  that  is  wrecking  it,  so  Joey  at  night  craved 
noises  and  smells,  stuffiness  and  the  sense  of  a  swarm  of 
humans  cluttered  around  him;  and  when  those  early 
autumn  nights  were  at  their  best  he  would  start  up 
in  bed,  awakened  by  the  sheer  peace  and  silence. 

"Gee,  but  it's  noisy  here  nights,"  he  said. 

No,  Joey  was  not  overjoyed  with  the  farm  at  first;  he 
was  living  naturally  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  it 
was  cruelly  hard  on  him. 

"Ain't  there  no  coppers  in  this  park?"  For  days 
that  was  as  near  as  he  could  come  to  understanding 
what  the  free  country  was.  He  wondered  why  people 
should  live  in  a  park  all  the  time,  and  who  told  them  they 
could  do  it. 


312  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Once  he  confided:     "Gee,  but  things  are  far  here." 

"Far?" 

He  nodded.  He  was  looking  out  toward  a  range  of 
hills  crowned  blue  with  the  Indian  summer  smoke,  and 
he  shrank  as  the  distance  impressed  itself  upon  his 
unaccustomed  eyes. 

"Gee!"  he  whispered,  awe-stricken.  "That's  too 
far  —  for  anything  to  be." 

One  of  those  mornings  as  he  sat  on  the  veranda,  the 
disconsolate  Pup  nearby,  a  neighbour's  boy,  a  stocky, 
red-cheeked  imp  about  Joey's  size,  but  years  younger, 
swung  up  on  the  gate  on  his  way  to  school  and  called 
cheerily:  "Hello,  there!" 

Joey  did  not  answer. 

The  boy  on  the  gate  rattled  his  copper-toed  boots 
along  the  pickets. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  asked. 

After  awhile  Joey  spoke.  He  said:  "What's  it  tuh 
you?" 

The  other  stopped  his  kicking  and  stared. 

"Huh!  I  didn't  mean  nuthin',"  he  said;  and  after 
an  embarrassed  moment  he  volunteered:  "I  live  next 
house  up  the  road  from  here.  I  got  a  dog  'at  kin  lick 
'at  Pup  all  to  pieces.  He's  a  shepherd,  mine  is.  My 
paw  gave  him  to  me  for  my  own  last  Christmas,  and  he 
minds  me  quicker'n  anybody." 

Joey  sat  sullenly  silent. 

"Where'd  yuh  work?"  he  said  finally. 

"  Huh !  I  don't  work,  'cept  'tato  buggin'  in  the  summer 
when  there  ain't  no  school  anyhow  and  the  bugs  is  bad. 


Joey  the  Dreamer  313 

Bet  I  kin  bug  more  'tatoes  than  you  kin.  I  kin  awmost 
keep  up  with  John  Potts,  and  my  paw  says  John's  the 
best  hired  man  we  ever  hed." 

Joey  shifted  uneasily. 

"Aw,"  he  said,  "what  yuh  talking  about?" 

The  farmer  boy  stared,  nonplussed  again.  Then  he 
played  his  trump  card. 

"Say,  I'll  let  you  see  our  new  Morgan  colt  if  you  come 
up  to  our  place.  He's  jist  this  high  and  we  kin  pet  him 
and  he  ain't  skeery  a  bit,  but,  we  can't  get  on  him, 
because  his  back  ain't  strong  'nought  yit  or  I'd  let  you 
ride  him,  too,  but  you  can  ride  old  Fan,  she's  strong 
enough." 

The  boy  paused,  breathless  and  expectant. 

"Go  wan,"  said  Joey,  "run  along  an'  peddle  your 
papers." 

The  Pup  looked  from  the  departing  boy  to  Joey  with 
sad  eyes.  What  had  gone  wrong  with  the  world? 

Poor,  beclouded  little  Joey!  What  a  struggle  must 
there  have  been  within  your  soul  when  first  you  were 
offered  the  things  for  which  your  childish  heart  hungered 
but  which  too  much  experience  prompted  you  to  reject 
in  suspicion. 

"It  is  good,  take  it,"  said  the  eternal  boy-heart.  But 
the  over-developed  sense  of  fear  warned:  "Look  out; 
there's  a  string  to  it." 

So  the  days  went  by,  the  golden  harvest  days  of  the 
year,  when  the  partridges  drummed  in  the  bright-hued 
brush,  and  the  hired  man  sang  as  he  swung  his  corn  knife, 
and  outwardly  Joey  remained  the  same,  a  stranger  to 


314  Joey  the  Dreamer 

his  new  world  and  its  creatures,  a  little  Ishmael  of  the 
tenements.  But  within  the  miracle  was  working.  For 
not  even  Joey  could  resist  the  constant  wooing  of  the 
Grown  Up  Pup. 

It  was  the  tenth  day,  and  Joey  sat  in  the  grass  and 
looked  at  the  Pup.  It  was  the  Pup's  day  to  shine.  For 
ten  long,  cheerless  days  he  had  suppressed  his  natural 
self.  It  was  enough.  It  was  too  much.  To-day  was 
the  day  to  break  loose. 

The  Pup  had  seduced  Joey  down  from  the  veranda 
by  barking  ferociously  at  a  clump  of  lilacs,  charging  into 
the  bushes,  growling  as  if  engaged  in  mortal  combat  with 
strange  beasts,  then  coming  out  with  a  rush  and  a  roar, 
as  if  pursued  by  forty  demons.  Joey  finally  came  down 
to  see  what  was  in  the  lilacs. 

There  was  nothing  there. 

The  Pup's  first  trick  having  met  with  success,  he 
essayed  the  second.  He  ran  crazily  around  in  a  circle, 
then  suddenly,  from  behind,  he  butted  Joey  in  the  knee 
joints,  and  galloped  away. 

Joey  sat  down  suddenly.  Victory  Number  Two  for 
the  Pup.  Things  were  working  out  well  to-day.  To 
show  that  it  was  all  in  fun  he  leaped  upon  the  boy,  and 
together  they  went  rolling  upon  the  ground.  Without 
waiting  to  see  how  this  demonstration  of  good  fellowship 
was  received  the  Pup  put  forward  his  best  performance, 
that  of  trying  to  catch  himself  in  a  race  around  a  small 
circle.  Dear  reader,  hast  ever  seen  a  long,  low,  rakish 
hound  dog,  with  flapping  ears,  trying  to  catch  himself, 


Joey  the  Dreamer  315 

and  swearing  to  the  limit  of  his  vocabulary  because  the 
self-pursuit  fails? 

Joey  held  out  for  a  long  time,  but  finally  he  gave  in. 
He  laughed,  and  it  was  strange  to  hear  him.  Said  he: 
"You're  a  pippin:  you're  a  pippin!"  And  "Pippin" 
has  been  the  Pup's  name  to  this  day. 

The  dog  stopped  in  his  wild  careening  at  the  sound  of 
laughter.  He  stood  still  and  cocked  his  ears  and  looked. 
Yes;  yes,  the  strange  boy  was  laughing,  like  other  boys. 
His  face  was  open,  and  his  eyes  were  shining,  like  other 
boys'  when  they  were  glad.  He  had  the  brother  look. 
Yes;  yes,  it  had  come  at  last.  The  dog  walked  straight 
to  Joey,  thrust  up  his  face,  and  looked  in  the  boy's  eyes; 
and  Joey's  little  hand  went  up  on  the  Pup's  head  and 
timidly  patted  it,  and  he  said:  "Pippin,  Pippin,"  and 
the  barriers  began  to  fade  away. 

Pippin  —  now  so  christened  —  promptly  proceeded 
to  go  mad  with  delight.  He  chased  himself  around  a 
circle,  he  leaped  into  the  air,  bounding  up  and  down  as 
if  clearing  obstacles;  he  rolled  frantically  in  the  grass; 
he  stood  on  one  ear;  and  all  the  time  he  chanted  in  dog- 
talk  the  pean  of  the  winning  of  a  new  friend.  Joey 
reached  forth  and  grabbed  timidly  at  one  of  the  wildly 
waving  legs.  Words  fail  in  the  attempt  to  picture 
Pippin's  delight  at  this. 

"Brr  —  ow- wow- wow!"   he   roared. 

Joey  threw  a  twig  at  him. 

"Yowp,  yowp!"  Pippin,  pretending  to  be  mortally 
frightened,  dashed  away  in  a  wild  race.  Back  he  came, 
still  racing,  tore  past  Joey,  just  out  of  reach,  tore  past  him 


316  Joey  the  Dreamer 

again,  then  trotted  away,  still  just  out  of  reach. 
Joey  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  started  after  him. 
Pippin  concealed  his  glee  this  time  and  kept  on  trotting, 
just  out  of  reach  until  the  boy  lunged  for  him,  then  dash- 
ing away  and  running  circles  that  brought  him  so  near 
that  Joey's  hand  brushed  his  tail  as  it  swept  past.  It 
was  Pippin's  old  game,  "Come  and  catch  me,"  but  it 
was  new  to  Joey,  and  he  followed,  sometimes  laughing, 
but  even  not  yet  daring  to  throw  body  and  soul  into  the 
fun  as  a  real  boy  should.  He  had  much  to  unlearn, 
then  much  to  learn.  But  he  had  a  good  teacher. 

Now  came  Pippin's  master  stroke.  With  true  pup 
cunning  he  laid  down  his  tail  so  that  it  led,  little  by  little, 
so  gradually  that  Joey  failed  to  observe,  out  of  the  yard 
and  onto  the  oat  stubble  that  adjoined.  Beyond  the 
stubble  lay  the  big  field  of  corn.  The  corn  was  high  and 
thick,  like  a  young  forest,  and  once  in  it  no  little  boy 
could  hope  to  see  whether  he  was  being  led.  Beyond  the 
corn  field  —  ah !  there  lay  the  consummation  of  this  fair 
morning's  deep-laid  plot. 

The  dog  worked  by  circles  over  the  short  clover  of  the 
stubble  and  subtlely  led  the  way  to  the  corn.  Here  there 
was  much  joy  for  dog  and  boy.  One  could  dodge  from 
row  to  row,  pretend  to  hide  behind  great  stalks,  or  other- 
wise indulge  in  the  "Catch  me"  game  to  the  heart's 
content.  But  Pippin  kept  working  on.  Through  the 
corn  they  went,  still  pursuing  and  pursued,  until  presently 
they  found  themselves  in  the  Magic  Land  for  boys  and 
dogs,  the  Woods,  where  who  knows  what  wonderful 
adventures  may  befall! 


Joey  the  Dreamer  317 

The  poplars  were  turning  a  dainty  yellow,  the  sumachs 
were  blood  red,  and  the  hardy  oaks  grudgingly  had  given 
up  the  edge  of  their  leaves  to  the  ruddy  tints  that  Nature 
spreads  over  the  land  with  the  first  hard  frosts.  A  flock 
of  blue  jays  rose  stridently  to  protest  the  invasion,  and 
a  red  squirrel  with  quivering  tail  sat  in  a  little  pine  and 
chattered  his  opinion  of  little  boys  and  dogs.  Overhead 
flapped  a  string  of  crows:  "Caw,  caw,  caw!"  Pippin 
stopped  gambolling  and  looked  up  at  Joey. 

"This  is  the  place  for  us,"  said  his  ears. 

Ah,  how  generous  the  woods  are  in  early  autumn! 
Pippin  nosed  suspiciously  in  a  brush  pile  at  Joey's  feet, 
and  out  leaped  a  startled  rabbit,  and  instantly  the 
woods  were  filled  with  the  trailing  tongue  of  Pippin  on  a 
warm  scent. 

It  was  a  short  chase,  for  the  rabbit  was  thoroughly 
frightened  and  scrambled  for  dear  life  to  safety  in  a 
nearby  stone  fence,  but  before  it  ended  the  blood  was 
leaping  through  Joey's  veins  as  it  never  had  leaped  before. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  trembling  with  a  new  excitement, 
as  the  dog,  also  trembling,  took  the  scent  and  gave  chase. 
Then  he  followed,  rushing  stra'ght  through  the  brush  and 
shouting  aloud  without  knowing  why. 

The  rabbit  had  found  shelter  deep  in  the  depths  of  the 
wall-like  fence.  Pippin,  mad  with  the  trailing  instinct, 
tore  at  the  stones  and  ferociously  voiced  his  chagrin. 
He  tried  to  squeeze  his  long  body  into  small  openings, 
although  he  had  tried  to  do  it  a  hundred  times  before 
and  knew  that  it  could  not  be  done.  He  scratched  at 
the  unyielding  bowlders.  He  stood  back  and  whined. 


318  Joey  the  Dreamer 

Then  he  swore  a  little,  dog-fashion,  and  tore  at  bunny's 
lortress  again. 

Joey  danced  around,  all  excitement,  but  soon  he  under- 
stood what  was  to  be  done.  When  the  hired  man  came 
over  from  the  corn  field  to  see  what  the  noise  was  about 
Joey  had  picked  a  hole  in  the  small  stones  on  top  of  the 
fence  and  was  tugging  away  at  a  bowlder  which  his 
feeble  strength  could  not  budge.  He  was  working 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  tippin,  and  he  was  flushed 
and  sweaty,  and  very  much  alive. 

"Gee!"  he  cried.  "A  cat  jumped  in  here  and  she 
can't  get  out." 

This  afternoon  the  hired  man  came  into  the  house  on 
tiptoes.  He  touched  his  lips  with  a  finger  and  pointed 
out  to  the  yard.  There  was  noise  and  confusion  out 
there.  The  bark  of  Pippin  rang  out  hilariously.  Then 
Joey's  voice  was  heard  shouting  at  him.  Then  the  voice 
of  the  boy  from  up  the  road.  Then  a  confusion  of 
sounds  of  running  and  tumbling  boys  and  dog.  Then 
Joey's  laughter,  uncontrolled  and  uncontrollable. 

The  hired  man  waved  his  hat. 

"Glory  be!"  he  whispered  loudly.  "That  young  un's 
learain'  how  to  play." 


THE  COUNTRY  LITE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  H.  T. 


000  111  507     o 


